


It Takes Me Out of My Head

by Parallel_Motion



Category: I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS, IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1991, 80's and 90's references, Eddie Kaspbrak Has a Bad Time, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Natural Born Entertainer, Stanley Barber Will Smooth Talk Your Mom, Stanley Barber is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22853170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parallel_Motion/pseuds/Parallel_Motion
Summary: "They finally let you in here with us big boys, huh Stan the Man?" Richie asked with a grin.Dark blonde curls swayed softly across his forehead as he nodded, biting his lip in excitement. He opened his mouth to speak, paused to look at their teacher, now engrossed in scribbling messily onto the chalkboard, and then back at Richie.His beaming face grew brighter, and he bounced in his seat. He smirked with the knowledge of the gods, glancing bashfully down at his desk, and then back up with confidence. His mouth hung open in hesitant silence for another long moment, capped with an enthusiastic nod. “Yep!”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Stanley Barber & Sydney Novak
Comments: 48
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Stanley is based on the teaser and trailer for Netflix’s I Am Not Okay With This. He is loveable and hilarious, and I think he'd be a great addition to the Loser's Club.
> 
> That said, the graphic novel IANOWT is based on is very bleak, perhaps more so than a lot of people are expecting. But it does seem like the Netflix adaptation has made some improvements, including a much lighter and more humorous tone. I’m hoping that they changed a couple of major events in particular. 
> 
> But nothing bad happens, here. These kids get a happy ending. :)
> 
> I am SO EXCITED that Shane created this amazing artwork for me, and I love seeing Richie, Stan, and Stanley in his style! I've been a fan of his works for some time. You can find his insanely talented self at 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/parallel-motion/blog/crowrelli
> 
> and 
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/crowrelli/

.

Richie didn't know how much time had passed since he first noticed Eddie doodling on a sheet of scrap paper, making an obvious effort to not tarry the neatness of his assignment sheet. No one with any sense could blame him for getting swept up in Eddie's excitement, brown eyes sparkling joyfully as he scribbled, tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, bottom lip bitten red with--

"How about you, Richie?" Mrs. Steinhaas cut into his daydream like a mohel at a bris. His head whipped towards the chalkboard, alarmed eyes meeting her unimpressed scowl, arms crossed in her signature no-nonsense stance. “This is an easy one.” 

Richie getting distracted during History class was certainly nothing new for her; hell, it was practically his daily routine. Though Richie really couldn’t be blamed for getting lost in thought when Eddie was engrossed in something he enjoyed, increasing his own cuteness factor exponentially. 

There should be a name for this kind of condition. 

The quiet panic born of getting caught staring at another boy intensified with every face that turned in his direction. He sat up straight, pulling his sprawled limbs into his own desk space and pretended to mull over whatever the question might’ve been. 

“Hmmm…” he squinted behind bottlecap lenses. “13,000 B.C.!” 

The teacher stared him down unblinkingly. The blonde girl a few seats ahead of him to his left raised her hand. “Christopher Columbus was sent back to Spain in chains and stripped of his governorship.”

Half of the class was still watching Richie, snickering to each other in hushed tones. Richie felt his cheeks burning. 

Unwilling to be the butt of the joke, he auto-shifted into class clown mode. “Oh sure, make fun of Columbus. Like you’ve never gone to the grocery store for spices, gotten lost, then murdered several people.”

The resulting groan spurred him on, grinning like a cheshire cat. 

“I would almost think you were paying attention, Richie.” His teacher could mock him all she wanted; all those quiz papers that came back to him with big red A’s weren’t marking themselves…

“There’s more where that came from, Professor S!” Richie geared up. “How was the Roman Empire cut in half?” He ignored her raising her hand to silence him and continued, “With a pair of Caesars!” 

The blonde girl shot him a scowl. “You’re not funny, Richie! No one wants to hear your lame jokes.”

“Your mom liked it.” He reconsidered, “But then, your mom is so old, she’s probably already forgotten it. Her birth certificate has ‘Expired’ stamped across the top.”

Unenthused, she turned back around in her seat, and he was surprised to find Stan sitting behind her, flashing him the thumbs up.

Stranger yet, there wasn’t an ounce of sarcasm to it. He was really leaning into it, his usual propped eyebrow bolstered not by a grimace, but by a shit eating grin. Like someone had spiked his Fort Knox Jewish chocolate coins. 

He almost looked… proud.

Wait.

"Stan? What are you doing in here? Aren’t your classes on the other side of the building?"

Ben leaned in to murmur quietly from the desk behind Stan. "Wrong Stanley, Richie."

"Huh?"

“Ben, if I hear you again, that’s detention.”

“What!” Eddie squeaked. “That’s not fair! He barely said anything!”

She pointed the chalk in her hand at Eddie. “You’re next.” 

Eddie and Ben both ducked their heads in embarrassment, pink shame coloring Ben’s face. 

Stan looked over his shoulder at Richie again, nodding with a conspiratorial fucking grin, like something truly engaging was happening. It mimicked Richie at his most mischievous. It was almost like he was doing his best Richie impression.

"What the fuck got into you, Staniel?"

"Richie, stop it!" Eddie whisper-yelled at his right. "You're going to get in trouble!"

Something was different. It wasn't so much his look, although his clothes were new and if they all went to the mall together to get Stan new clothes without inviting him, Richie was gonna be pissed.

"They finally let you in here with us big boys, huh Stan the Man?" Richie asked with a grin.

Dark blonde curls swayed softly across his forehead as he nodded, biting his lip in excitement. He opened his mouth to speak, paused to look at their teacher, now engrossed in scribbling messily onto the chalkboard, and then back at Richie. 

His beaming face grew brighter, and he bounced in his seat. He smirked with the knowledge of the gods, glancing bashfully down at his desk, and then back up with confidence. His mouth hung open in hesitant silence for another long moment, capped with an enthusiastic nod. “Yep!”

Richie watched as Stan raised a curled fist, and then tapped it gently against his desk. 

The warm hand on his wrist distracted him from his puzzlement. "Richie", Eddie whispered, leaning into Richie's personal space, "This is our transfer student. His name is Stanley. Mrs. Steinhaas had him give a whole speech about it. Weren't you paying attention?"

"Are you shitting me right now, Eds? WE HAVE TWO STANLEYS?!?"

“That’s one day of detention for Richie and Eddie. You want to try for tomorrow, too?”

Richie could already sense the flames alit within Eddie’s eyeballs before he even looked at him. A simple glance to the side confirmed it-- Eddie was wordlessly planning out Richie’s murder. Imminent murder, if his white-knuckled grip on the edges of his desk was any indication.

Stanley looked between Eddie and Richie a few times, grinning like a fool, then flipped Richie the goddamn thumbs up, again, this time with a wink.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story title is from the song "Double Vision", by Foreigner.


	2. Chapter 2

.

Richie fidgeted with the straps of his backpack as they left the silent confines of detention, the dull weight of its contents pulling them tight against his slender frame. 

“But can you picture it, though?” Richie vibrated with excitement, his wry smile stretching wide across his cheeks. “The looks on both of their faces?” 

He could see it now: Perched magnificently on the top landing of a staircase, descending upon the two of them with no warning, shouting out "Hey, STANLEY!" and watching the two of them turning around to answer him at once, mirrored startled looks on their faces at the sight of a flying Richie soaring straight towards them...

Eddie’s brows knitted together in disbelief. “Do you not get how livid I am with you right now? Why are we even talking about this? I’m going to be dead by the end of the day. DEAD! Do you understand that?”

He indulged himself in a dreamy glance at Eddie, the ultimate embodiment of passion and spitfire. Richie slipped a casual arm around Eddie’s shoulders, resting his hand against the soft fabric of his shirt. “Cut the woman some slack, Eds. She’s had a lot on her mind lately. She’s had to stay focused.”

Eddie’s expression morphed into concern. “Focused? On what?”

The fingers of Richie’s other hand curled together, the tip of his middle finger meeting his thumb. He moved said hand to the front of his groin. “On deez nuts!” He doubled over in a fit of giggles, pulling Eddie off balance. 

“How are you not taking this seriously?! I’ll be grounded for a year!” He shoved Richie’s arm away. “This is YOUR FAULT! If you’d’ve just shut your trap for once in your life--”

“Sorry, my love.” The half-hearted apology might’ve carried more weight if it hadn’t been accompanied by the lovestruck smirk plastered to his face, the kind that didn’t wash off easily. 

They turned the corner and rounded Eddie’s locker. “And anyway, she’s probably had a heart attack by now, knowing I got detention. Women in their early forties are already twenty percent more likely to have a heart attack. I’ll bet that doubles when something like this happens. My mom said that a heart attack is what killed Ted Bundy.”

“Didn’t he get the electric chair?”

“The electricity goes straight to your heart, Richie! Everyone knows that!” Richie stood patiently by Eddie’s side as he muttered himself into a deeper frenzy. “She probably dropped dead on the spot when they called her. I have NEVER had detention in my entire LIFE! Or what if they didn’t call her at all? She wouldn’t suspect it! Oh god, what if she thinks I was kidnapped?!?”

Eddie balanced his opened backpack on one knee as he maneuvered books in and out of the middle pouch, his manic expression a comical juxtaposition to his casual movements. 

“Relax, Eds. I’m sure they called her. Mrs. K. is probably in the school parking lot right now, pacing like a bloodhound. Foaming at the mouth and everything.”

Eddie’s eyes widened dramatically. “Shit!” He slammed the locker door shut, and powered forward. 

Richie’s long legs helped to narrow the gap between them. Their sneakers squeaked noisily on the linoleum. “Well, at least we have two Stanleys here, now.”

Eddie was nonplussed. “You’re not listening at all, are you?”

“I’m just thinking about our good fortune.” He adjusted his glasses by the sides of the frame. “Do you think this is like a Siamese twin situation, or what?"

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Like when twins are born connected at the shoulder, and the doctor has to saw them apart--"

"Doctors don't just saw babies apart, Richie!"

"Do you think he got so deformed that their parents sent him away to an orphanage for hunchbacks? And now that he's decent enough to be seen in public without making people ralph their Pop-Tarts, they let him back inside the house?"

Eddie was speechless. It was like Richie's levels of dumbass had reached full peak, obliterating Eddie’s own cerebrum. 

"You don't think Mr. Uris has a secret second family, do you? I don't know how he even managed to land one wife, let alone--"

"They are NOT RELATED, Richie!"

Richie's smile split his face in disbelief. "Sure they are! They're identical!” His limbs braced themselves for a performance, an effortless transition. The pitch of his voice shifted into his upper register, his falsetto echoing down the mostly empty hall. 

“Identical Stanleys, and you’ll fiiiiiiiind…”

“Please don’t do this…”

“They laugh alike they walk alike sometimes they even talk alike! You can lose your miiiiiiiiind…”

Eddie sighed heavily, burying his face in one hand.

“When Stanleeeeeeeeeys--”

“Bye, Rich.”

“-- are two of a kiiiiiiiind!” He finished the Patty Duke Show theme with splayed arms and jazz hands. 

Eddie walked away, shaking his head as Richie bowed to the lone passerby applauding his performance, and then scrambled to follow Eddie down the hall.

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

"Are you guys seriously not seeing it, or are you fucking with me?" he asked the next day, leaning into his lunch tray. Stan, Bill, and Mike sat opposite him as Ben and Eddie flanked him on either side of the stretch table.

"I'm not s-s-s-sss--" 

“Try looking again, Bill” Richie spat. 

"Look! There he is, over there!" Mike pointed to the service end of the line, where Stanley had finished collecting his tray of food and had turned around just in time to make eye contact. Mike held up a hand in greeting, and Stanley returned the gesture with a confident nod. Watching this guy’s face at work was bizarre; it was like if Stan Uris had turned the Chipper Dial in his brain up to eleven and then ripped the dial off completely.

Richie jumped to his feet. "Hey, new kid!" he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear over the crowd.

"I'm right here, Richie" Ben tugged gently at his arm.

"Other new kid, Haystack."

Stanley strode his way over, elbows swaying fluidly in their own little dance. "Sup?" There was that grin, again.

"Are you a bodysnatcher?" The table groaned, but Stanley just laughed like Richie was _the best_.

“Knock it off, Richie!” squeaked Eddie.

“This is exactly how the invasions start, you know!”

Stanley chuckled, enjoying Richie’s energy. “So, you guys eating lunch?” He lifted his tray in a show, nodding in solidarity. “Yup, me too.” 

Stan smiled sweetly at him. “Want to join us?” He shifted closer to Bill, opening up space on the bench, leaving the invitation more of a hopeful gesture than a question.

Stanley’s grin grew impossibly bigger as he took a seat. He swivelled towards his doppelganger, both of them raising an open hand simultaneously. “I’m Stanley, nice to meet you.” The table quieted for a moment, erupting into precocious laughter. 

“Good one, you guys!” Eddie beamed in delight. 

“This’ll be fun,” Ben noted, “having the two of you around, with the same name.” 

“And the same face!” Richie added, a little too forcefully. No one seemed to notice. 

“My last name is Barber, if you want to call me that.” Stanley offered. 

“Aaaaaaayyyyy, Bah-bah-ree-nooo!” Richie erupted dramatically, donning his best John Travolta persona. “The great french fry phantom! I just heard the news. No potat-ahs.” 

“He’s saying he’s going to call you Barbarino,” Ben explained. “Richie does impressions.”

“Yah got a side order of NOTHIN’!” Richie was on fire. He rarely had an opportunity to whip out his Brooklyn accent. 

One of the school’s harried staff members supervising the crowd side-eyed him questioningly from the wall closest to them. Richie waved cheerfully, his long arm extending into the air, flapping at him like one of those inflatable tube sock men from the used car dealership.

Stan cleared his throat, a bashful inflection in his words, “Actually, I’ve thought about this a lot, you guys…” He looked around at his friends with a shy smile. “Now that we’re in high school, I think I’d like to just be Stan. I’m ready for a change.” He glanced back at his double. “So you can be Stanley, and I’ll be Stan.”

“What? No!” Richie slapped open palms onto the tabletop. “No no no, YOU’RE Stanley, Stan the Man.” Stan rolled his eyes at Richie’s lack of awareness, not hearing the contradiction in his own words. “You’re Stanley, and he’s Barbarino.”

“Up your nose with a rubber hose!” Stanley piped gleefully, clearly having seen his share of Welcome Back Kotter.

Richie flipped him both middle fingers. “Up your ass with a chainsaw!”

“Richie!” Mike gasped.

Ben looked up at him in confusion. “He was quoting the show with you, Richie. That’s what Barbarino says.” 

“...Oh. Right.”

Stanley surveyed the tabletop, taking in the small details about his new companions. “Eddie, you use an inhaler?”

“It tastes like battery acid.”

“I can speak for myself, Richie!” Eddie’s cute little eyebrows furrowed together in adorable anger. “I HATE it when you do that!”

“Oh, you love it, Eds. It’s what makes you so chuckle-licious!”

“NO I DON’T!”

“Where are you from, Stanley?” Mike cut in before things could get out of hand in front of their new, uninitiated addition. It was understandable; best to let the chaos unfold gradually. 

Stanley smiled wide at Mike, swirling his fork through the mashed potatoes in the circle corner of his formica tray. He glanced down, watching the movements as his mouth opened and closed like a puffer fish. 

They watched in anticipation as he collected a large pile of gluey substance onto the metal teeth and flipped it over, creating his own potato mountain.

His other hand scratched nervously at the back of his neck. “Uh, Pennsylvania.” He smiled tightly, nodding his head at the table as if to reassure himself, though the sparkle in his eyes had dulled. 

Stan’s hand rested gently on his shoulder as Bill asked, “Wow, is Pennsylvania really th-that b-b-bad?”

Caught off-guard, his head popped back up and scanned the table. “Heh. Yeah, no, it’s fine. Just… uh, missing... someone.”

“We h-h-had a fr-friend of ours move away, too, after eighth g-grade.” Bill glowered sadly. Richie’s eyes met his, and the table grew quiet. 

“I can’t believe it’s been three months since then,” Eddie mumbled. He reached into his Leave it to Beaver lunch box, removed the apple, and set it aside. He pulled out a ziploc bag of baby carrots, and crunched them loudly between his teeth. 

Richie eyed the lunchbox carefully. Awhile back, he had offered up his own brand new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunch box, not even a full week after his mom had bought it for him, so that he could pull Eddie with him into the 1990s. 

_“It’s no use,” Eddie demurred. “My mom will just throw it away.”_

_“She’ll throw away… a lunch box?”_

_“She thinks it promotes Satanism.” He tilted his head towards the still photo of four smiling adult turtles standing upright with select weaponry adorning the plastic container. “Turtles shouldn’t be able to do that.”_

Richie blinked the memory away. He grabbed Eddie’s apple and set it in front of him, pushing his own food a foot away from him for the extra space. His tray crashed into Bill’s, eliciting a shout of protest from the brunette. 

Stanley peeked his head around Stan to face Bill. “Did you know him for very long?”

“Her,” Bill corrected, catching his food from spilling off of the table. “And not really. But it feels like I’ve kn-known her my whole life.” The group nodded in agreement. 

No one said a word as Richie pulled a silver potato peeler out of his jeans pocket. With a glance at Eddie, he wiped the peeler front and back onto his napkin to ensure that no mysterious germs have infested it from the depths of his clothing, and began peeling away at the waxy red coating.

The sides of Bill’s mouth quirked up. “...But you should ask Ben; he kn-knows Bev the b-b-best, don’t you, Ben?”

A chorus of wolf whistles and catcalls followed. 

Ben’s cheeks turned pink as he focused on enjoying his Hostess Vanilla Pudding Pie, not sure what to do with the sudden attention. 

Richie wrapped his peeler-wielding arm around Ben’s shoulders. “That long distance relationship getting hot and heavy, there, Haystack?” He waved his other arm magnanimously through the air and quickly cut in before anyone else could say anything, “A gentleman like our BennyBoy would never kiss and tell, you perverts!” He leaned in closer to Ben. “Tell me EVERYTHING.”

Mike was glowing pure joy from his seat. “You guys made it official?” 

His confirming nod roused scattered cheers, as well as applause from Richie, arm still snaked around him, shaking the peeler dangerously close to Ben’s eyes as he clapped. 

To Ben’s credit, he patiently waited for Richie’s attention to divert back to apple-peeling to continue. 

“We’ve been talking on the phone a lot, almost every day.”

“Are you still sending her those postcards?” Stan asked with sincere interest. Ben blushed, and the two of them shared a knowing look. “That’s great, Ben. I think that really means a lot to her that you do that.”

Richie focused his thoughts on the task at hand, pushing down the pangs of loss and regret he felt whenever someone mentioned Beverly. The nagging thoughts that popped up from time to time, that she didn’t _have_ to leave. That there was surely _something_ that could’ve been done differently. If only he’d had more time to figure out a plan... 

“They really like their new house. It has a swimming pool and everything,” Ben continued. “Her aunt said that now that they have a big back yard, they can get a dog soon!”

“You’re perfect for her, Ben,” Mike admired. It was true. You could hear it in the way Ben spoke of her that he felt nothing but happiness for her good fortune in life. Not an ounce of selfish longing, not a trace of a moping boyfriend to be found. 

Richie wondered what that felt like, to be as well-adjusted as Ben was. His eyes darted up to find smiles all around, the faces of friends who knew that Bev deserved _some_ good shit to finally happen for her. Like a safe place to live. 

His eyes met with Stanley’s at the end of the table, watching Richie peeling concentric, agitated circles like the apple had personally wronged him. 

Richie set the fruit down quickly, the steel peeler clattering to the table. He slid the apple in front of Eddie without breaking Stanley’s eye contact, never one to willingly forfeit an awkward staring contest.

Eddie consumed it eagerly and without a word, as if this sort of symbiotic, codependent relationship with the taller boy were an everyday part of their routine. 

“--And my mom says that the prices would be lower next month, so we’re planning on sometime in the middle of October.”

Richie whipped his head to the left, immediately chiding himself for the distraction. “Planning on what?”

“He’s going to v-v-visit Bev. He’s taking a t-t-tr--”

“You’re taking a train to go see your woman?” Richie gasped theatrically. “Oh, Benny, you romantic sap, you!” He rested his chin in his palm, elbow propped on the table space between them. “You’re so dreamy. I’d let you stand outside my window with a boombox blasting Peter Gabriel at me anytime. Though, preferably at 2am. Teach all of my neighbors a lesson in what REAL LOVE means. Especially that guy that ran over my skateboard. Fuck that guy.”

“They sell Dunkaroos here?” Richie’s eyes trailed back to Stanley, who was bobbing his head excitedly at the snack in front of Richie. 

Richie looked down at his untouched cafeteria tray, left abandoned for more urgent matters. “Nah, I got them from home.” He picked up a sack lunch from the floor, holding it aloft. “I eat the dessert first, then the school lunch, then the rest of my mom’s lunch.” 

He reconsidered the contents of the bag, pulled out a bottle of Chucklin' Cherry Squeez-It, downed it in one go, and slammed the empty lightweight plastic down onto the table in victory. 

“You get a school lunch AND lunch from home?” Stanley’s jaw had practically hit the floor. He shook his head in awe.

“Richie’s a growing boy,” Mike joked. “He’s taller than I am, now, even when he’s slouching.”

“More like a human garbage disposal,” Eddie simpered coyly in Richie’s direction. Richie pulled the top off of the cookie container, then lifted it towards Eddie, offering him the first dip of frosting.

Eddie eyed them wearily. “Those are the cinnamon graham ones.” 

Richie returned to his bag and retrieved a Snack Pack chocolate pudding cup. Eddie accepted it eagerly, looking at the prized possession in his hands like it was Christmas morning. “Thanks, Richie” Eddie said sincerely, peering shyly at him with honeyed Bambi eyes. 

Richie lingered in a dopey, smiley gaze at him, then turned to meet twin expressions at the other end of the table. Both Stanley’s were looking right at him with identical propped eyebrows. If Stan’s small smirk was a subtle knowing one, then Stanley’s entertained grin was practically spelling it out for all to see. 

_Jesus_. Richie sunk his face into his hands. 

Stan went back to flipping through his _Illustrated Encyclopedia of Birds_ as Eddie handed his box of raisins to a grateful Mike. 

“Whoa! What is THAT!” Stanley pointed to a bird on the page closest to him.

Two photos of monstrous looking owls peered up from the book, one looking like a hybrid frog fever dream from Jim Henson’s rejected muppet pile. The other one had bulbous black eyeballs, reminding Richie of a giant tarantula. Both of them had their mouths frozen wide open in shock, leaving Richie deeply unsettled. 

“Those are potoos.”

“That’s the bird that looks like Richie’s face after he tells us his standup jokes, right?” Ben asked innocently.

Stan smiled at Richie’s scandalized reaction. “He’s not wrong, you know…” He returned to his conversation with Stanley before Richie could protest. “Did you know that the common potoo’s eyes are yellow, but at night, they turn orange? It’s like having mood rings for eyeballs!” 

“No one would ever have any reason to know that, Staniel!” Richie snapped. 

Stan quietly studied Richie for a moment, then continued. “Their large mouths come in handy when they are hunting, catching plenty of insects when it’s dark out. And they have a distinct and unsettling vocal sound.” 

The whole table turned to look at Richie.

“What!”

Stan continued, quoting the book directly. “These silly looking creatures may sound strange or scary, but in reality, they are pretty lazy birds. They tend to have perches where they sit and will usually never go too far from their stump. Sailors have reported the occasional potoo stowaway, but that’s probably because they’re too lazy to swim back to shore.”

Richie levelled him with a glare.

Stan finished the selection. “These birds are happiest in monogamous relationships. Once they find their ideal mate, they remain at each other’s sides for the rest of their lives...” Catching even himself off-guard with that last one, Stan had the decency to keep his eyes to himself and not on Richie, who was red-faced and thrumming with embarrassment next to Eddie, suddenly motionless as a statue. 

“Wow!...” Stanley’s face was lit up in astonishment, utterly blown away by this information. “What a world we live in!” He drummed his fingers against the tabletop excitedly, eager to learn more. 

Stan had never felt more *seen*. His arms were folded in a mock nonchalant pose, but his shoulders were shrugged close to his red ears. He was smiling hard, and looked happier than Richie had seen in ages. 

Richie chewed on his emotions for a moment. “Good thing we’ve got King Nerd Stanthony here with us. If we ever run into a pterodactyl, he’ll know just what to do!”

Stan looked concerned. “Please tell me you don’t think that a pterodactyl is a bird…”

“Actually...” Stanley started, his mouth open in a grin, hesitating, the words right there on his tongue, ruminating in the moment. His fingertips caressed the edges of his milk carton as his head wobbled with suspense.

“SPIT IT OUT!”

Stanley’s grin grew bigger, showcasing perfect pearly white teeth. “I heard that _you_ were the smartest guy in school, Richie.” Stanley’s impressed nodding continued, and Richie would almost wonder if this guy was about to give himself a neck sprain if it weren’t for the words clouding his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“I was wondering if you would help me with some assignments and stuff?” His vulnerability caught Richie by surprise. “So I could catch up to everyone else?”

Richie’s brain had officially short-circuited. “Uhhhhhh…. Fucking _yeah_ , dude. Sure. Of course. That’s great! Ha!” And then sat there frowning at his own mashed potatoes, dipping his ketchup-drizzled chicken nuggets in them for some spontaneity. 

“Maybe you should come over today. And every day! There is NOTHING I would rather do more!” His voice jumped in volume, prompting Ben to place a soothing hand on Richie’s back. “It’s the best idea I’ve ever heard!” Richie scowled, stuffing his mouth full of assorted-cafeteria blend before he promised to braid him a friendship bracelet. 

“Richie’s not used to processing compliments.” Ben continued to rub small circles into Richie’s shoulder blade. “And you know what? You should be complimented more. You’re a great friend, Richie.”

“This is so awesome!” Stanley punctuated his words with curled hands gripping at the air in delirious joy. He then found the energy to dig into his food, it seemed, and Richie watched aghast as the twin Stanleys painstakingly separated their carrots, green beans, and corn from the mixed vegetable square, each into their own little cubbies. 

“Oh, come on! HOW AM I THE ONLY ONE SEEING THIS SHIT??”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potoos: the Richie Toziers of birds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time I had almost finished this chapter, IANOWT had hit Netflix, so I paused to watch it. I am relieved that they changed the outcome of the ending, and was delighted to find that they had also included a detention scene, as well as Stanley playing with a Rubik's cube.
> 
> I'm also glad that Stanley has the same qualities throughout the episodes as he did in the trailer. I maintain that Stanley Barber would be a natural friendship match for Richie, and I will continue to write more for them in the future.

.

"And you did all of that with no shoes or socks on?" Maggie Tozier rested her hand on her collarbone, grinning curiously. "I'd be afraid of stepping on a nail!"

Stanley laughed. "Who needs them?" His arms swayed at his sides, shoulders leaned in like they were sharing an old joke between them. 

"I can’t believe my son has found a friend who’s more of a character than he is.” She gingerly squeezed Stanley’s cheek, her smile radiant. "Richie, have you shown Stanley our TuffStuff Home Fitness center in the basement?" 

"It’s at the top of my to do list," Richie monotoned, eyes glued to the green screen of his Gameboy.

“Richie’s father is a dentist,” she explained. “So, it’s a top of the line workout station.”

“ _Tooth_ be told… I think that dentistry is an admirable profession. Underrated!”

She smiled fondly at him. "Are you guys hungry? We have plenty of snacks in the pantry..."

Richie frowned, gesturing towards the pile of assorted pilfered goods he’d already snagged: Fruit Roll Ups, Keebler Magic Middles, Handi-Snacks cheese and crackers, Hi-C boxes with Slimer on the front, a six-pack of warm Coke, and an open bag of Starbursts. An assemblage of red Starbursts wrappers littered the floor around him. 

"Well...I guess I'll leave you to your homework, then..." she lingered in the doorway, "If you need anything else..."

“We know where the kitchen is.” 

Once the door had clicked shut, Stanley made quick work of inspecting Richie’s belongings, a sudden anthropologist on a mission. 

He peeked curiously at the shelves of figurines lining Richie’s wall, lifting the Rubik’s cube off of the bottom ledge and playing with it absentmindedly. 

"Your mom is so nice!"

"She's married, but I'll put a good word in for you.” He positioned the line-shaped block above the cluster of shapes, tilting it to a vertical hover, ready to clear four Tetris lines at once. “Your boner for ‘ _dentistry_ ’ ought to make her feel right at home." 

Stanley giggled. "You… just made a ‘your mom’ joke about your own mom?"

Richie responded with an eyebrow lift, biting into his Oreo Big Stuf, which was roughly the size of a hockey puck. “Put that down. I’ve got it just how I like it.”

Stanley observed the cube in his hand. Absolutely nothing lined up in matching color. He placed it quickly onto the shelf, then stared at it for a moment, willing the hidden meaning of this to reveal itself. Like a Magic Eye, with a coded lifeline into what made Richie’s mind work. 

“How did you get to be so funny?” Richie looked up, met again with an expression so sincere that it made him feel unsettled. 

He shrugged one shoulder. “I was a natural born charmer. The doctors tried to swap me out with another baby so they could keep me for themselves.” His eyes returned to the screen, but his attention was divided, half watching Stanley as he continued to geek over Richie’s possessions. Richie wondered if this was what it felt like to be a museum. 

He stopped at Richie’s dresser, a large boombox perched atop it, cluttered with cassette tapes in and out of plastic cases. He picked up each one individually, turning it around in his hand, studying the words on the paper slips inside.

“Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Smashing Pumpkins… nice,” he mumbled aloud. 

There was a noticeable bounce in his step when he got to the lesser-known bands. “Mudhoney, Dinosaur Jr., Tad, Melvins-- the Minutemen?” He raised a clenched fist in the air. “You have high-quality taste in music. I thought you might.” He intoned, “You must be a big fan of Nirvana, then.”

“Who’s Nirvana?” 

He glanced up just as Stanley’s entire body froze. His hands hovered in place, _Buzz or Howl Under the Influence of Heat_ slipping out of his grasp and clattering onto the dresser. 

His upper torso swivelled outward theatrically, completing a 180 degree turn to face Richie, the balls of his feet pivoting in place.

His entire face contorted into disbelief, so delirious he almost looked happy, eyes wide as saucers. 

“Ho-ly SHIT!”

Richie felt exposed. “Are they good?”

“Ho ho HOOO!” Stanley clapped his hands animatedly, revelling in the moment. But instead of answering Richie, he resumed his rummaging.

He craned his head to admire the movie posters on Richie’s wall. He fiddled with his fingers, then tucked his long arms behind his back, hands clasped together loosely. “You ever wonder what it must be like to be an alien? Living on earth, adjusting to society’s customs and imposed restrictions? I’d like to think I’d be the kind of alien who opposed imperialism.”

Richie considered this. “Like Mork from Ork?”

Stanley’s face lit up. “Nanu nanu!” He threw up a Vulcan peace sign with both hands.

Something lit up deep in Richie’s chest. Anyone who’d ever met Richie knew that he loved doing Robin Williams impressions, and, if he did say so himself, he wasn’t too shabby at them.

But he’d never confessed to anyone, not even Bev, how deep a kinship he’d felt with the comedian. How much time and practice he’d put into impersonating him, how it made him feel as he improved. Like he was soaring. 

Richie paused his game, setting it aside. “Kemosabe, something strange over there!” He flipped his hands upside down to form a makeshift bandana over his eyes. “I know, Tonto, five hundred people tied up with dental floss!”

Stanley shook with laughter, holding his sides. “You sound just like him!”

Richie died inside while Stanley moved on to Richie’s bookshelf full of comic books like nothing had happened. 

Stanley stood deep in thought for a moment, then flung his arms into the air and shouted at Richie on the floor. “Good MOOOOOORNING, VIETNAAAAAAM!” Richie’s jaw fell. He jumped to his feet, delighting in the challenge. 

“Here's a little advice: Never eat in a Vietnamese restaurant next to a pound.”

“Should've gotten the one with the training wheels, pal,” Stanley countered.

“Excuse me, sir. Seeing as how the V.P. is such a V.I.P., shouldn't we keep the P.C. on the Q.T.? 'Cause if it leaks to the V.C. he could end up M.I.A., and then we'd all be put out in K.P.”

“OHHHHHHH!” Stanley bellowed in awe, like he’d never heard anything so clever. “Round one goes to Richie!” His eyes crinkled at the sides. 

He then raised a finger in suspense, and said with a serious expression, “I stand upon my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.”

Richie leapt onto his bed, threw his arms up dramatically and wailed, “Oh Captain, my captain!”

“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary." He pumped one fist into the air triumphantly.

“Phone call from God. If it had been collect, that would have been daring!”

Stanley was so overjoyed with their repartee that he fell to the floor, happy to relinquish his claim in battle. He let his arms tumble to the floor above his head, his long curls cascading slowly across the carpeting.

Richie watched the peace glow from within him, like he’d found something he’d been searching for. Like he was _content_. 

Richie plopped down onto his bed, the mattress bouncing him a couple of times as he settled into a sitting position. 

“Eddie and I saw that movie together, at the Capitol theater. I remember that, now... we were thirteen, and, _fuck_ , that was right after school got out.” A tingle ran up his spine. “Right before--” His throat closed around the words before they materialized. Extended rows of prickle teeth seized his memory, the crunch of Eddie’s forearm breaking shook him to his core. 

His eyes widened in terror, and he glanced once at Stanley before shaking the thoughts away. “Right before Honey I Shrunk the Kids came out.” 

Stanley tilted his head sideways, reminding Richie of a floppy eared puppy, still trying to make sense of the world. But their encounters with Pennywise were going to remain secrets between the Loser’s Club and only the Loser’s Club, until the day they died. 

Richie sighed in defeat. “Thank you, Mr. Barber, for the stroll down amnesia lane.”

“You really love him a lot, don’t you?” Stanley smiled. 

Richie paused. “What?”

“Eddie. I wish I could find what you guys have. It’s sweet.” 

Richie stared him down, his heart beating far too fast against his ribcage to form a coherent thought. 

“How long have you guys been together? As boyfriends, I mean.”

“What the fuck!” Richie jumped to his feet. His head swung from side to side, worried that somehow the whole town had heard Stanley through the closed window. 

“You’re… not together?” Stanley looked soundly confused. 

“I’M NOT IN LOV-- I’m not fucking gay, dude. Jesus.” Richie spat, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses back up with one finger. “Do I look like a fucking girl to you?”

Stanley’s head whipped back like he’d been stung. “Wha- what are you…”

His face shifted into something dark, anger intensifying his features. “You sound just like my dad.”

“No, I. I didn’t mean… _shit_.” Richie felt the familiar waves of failure and guilt wash over him. “I didn’t mean it, okay? I just mean that… I’m too busy drowning in babes, constantly. Daily! Women line up for my dick like it’s Derry’s main attraction.”

When Stanley continued to stare at him in suspicious silence, Richie doubled down. “It’s true! Ask anyone! I’ve got more girlfriends than I can count! There’s no way I could ever...” He trailed off, unable to complete the lie. He crossed his arms, daring Stanley to argue his claims. 

The silence held, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. Richie’s heart galloped so hard he could hear it pounding in his eardrums.

If he thought that this new guy resembled Stan Uris before, it was nothing compared to the look he was giving Richie now. This was a face that Richie had seen so many times that it spanned his entire childhood. It was a look that called _bullshit_. 

Stanley tilted his head to the side again, studying Richie, his propped eyebrow of skepticism climbing higher. Finally, he shrugged. “Okay.” Without another word, he slid his backpack close, unzipped it, and began pulling out his books. 

Richie exhaled deeply, rolling his eyes in relief. He slumped onto his bed, and grabbed his cassette player and headphones from his bedside stand. He pulled the headphones over his ears, willing them to drown out his racing thoughts.

He gripped the player close, tilting it away from Stanley, lest he see the tape currently loaded, conveniently titled “Eddie”. 

He pressed play, leaned his head back into his pillow, and let his eyes drift shut. He couldn’t tell if he was more anxious or annoyed, but he could feel the familiar deterioration of his sanity tapping at his subconscious. 

The current song was ending, and when the tinkling piano keys of the next song’s intro cued up, it calmed Richie’s trembling nerves. It started up the same movie in his mind, the kind that ran like a home movie projector, and Richie was helpless to stop it. 

It was the summer they’d all joined together, the seven of them, spending their carefree days in Ben’s underground clubhouse. Eddie had jumped into the hammock with Richie, kicking at him violently until they were both settled. Richie’s head and shoulders leaned all of the way out of the hammock in a failed attempt to avoid Eddie’s socked foot caressing his face. He slapped it away in mock offense.

The others were hard at work reinforcing the wood beams, helping Ben maintain the structure of the hideaway he’d made into a second home for them, but all Richie could think about was how warm Eddie was snuggled into him like this, mouth still running like a motor. 

_I wanted to be with you alone, and talk about the weather_

Eddie brought his left foot up from where it had braced him on the ground, tucking it into Richie’s side. It wasn’t the first time Eddie had been physically close with Richie, but something about this felt different. 

_But traditions I can trace against the child in your face, won't escape my attention_

Eddie’s other foot had given up the attack, now resting against Richie’s shoulder. It was overwhelming. Holding his breath, Richie watched his own hand as it rested on itself on Eddie’s ankle. His eyes flicked up nervously to meet Eddie’s. 

_You keep your distance with a system of touch, And gentle persuasion_

Eddie’s eyes dragged down to Richie’s fingers on his ankle, and back up to hold his gaze. He smiled softly, not breaking eye contact. 

_I'm lost in admiration, could I need you this much?_

With a mind of their own, Richie’s fingers started to caress the soft skin, trailing softly up Eddie’s calf, so slowly. Eddie stared at him with a deepened intensity, and a soft smile that dared him on. 

_Something happens and I'm head over heels, I never find out till I'm head over heels_

Richie was totally awash in the situation, floating out to uncharted territory with no life vest. Eddie went back to reading his comic, the smile still lingering on his face.

When the topic of conversation shifted from summer programs in Bar Harbor to dreamed getaways in Florida, Bev was still smirking at the two of them, a knowing look on her face. 

She smiled at Richie, a genuine smile born out of support. Encouragement, even. She winked at him, keeping his secret unspoken.

_Ah, don't take my heart, don't break my heart, don't, don't, don't throw it away_

When the song drew to a close, so did his reminiscence, the projector in his mind shutting itself off and leaving Richie’s mind scrambling. The loneliness was always made worse, dwelling in happy memories like these, tinged with hopeless fantasy as time marched on, his feelings left unresolved. 

He became acutely aware that he wasn’t alone in the room. He tensed, but only saw the back of Stanley’s head when he glanced at him, his gangly body still hunched over his book, still studying alone. 

Richie pushed the stop button, and slid his headphones off and over to the corner of his mattress. 

He sighed heavily. He knew what he had to do now, and it wasn’t going to be easy. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tears For Fears - Head Over Heels:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsHiG-43Fzg
> 
> The lyrics for the second half of the song are actually quite fitting for Eddie's perspective.
> 
> “Thank you, boys, for the stroll down amnesia lane” is another quote from _Dead Poet's Society_ , but it felt so It-themed that I had to include it.


	5. Chapter 5

.

Richie pushed himself into a sitting pose, long arms bent backwards behind him, hands digging into the mattress. He watched the back of Stanley’s head for a moment as he scribbled diligently onto his notebook.

A heavy sigh resonated through his lungs. He slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose and willed himself to face his fears.

He had tackled far worse than this.

Heaving himself off of the bed, he lumbered onto the floor, crossing his legs and resting forward with his elbows on his knees. He pushed his own overweight backpack out of the way and scooted a bit closer. 

He sat quietly for a while, considering his words. The silence in his room grew louder, only the pencil scratching against Stanley’s notebook giving any respite. 

He hadn’t even noticed that Stanley was wearing cologne until now. His brain picked through olfactory memories of the various brands he’d smelled before to see if he could place it. He absently recalled the time he’d tried wearing a generous amount of Aspen for Men to go see Terminator 2 with Eddie. The younger boy had scrambled for his inhaler, cursing a blue streak and swearing that Richie was trying to kill him through chemical suffocation. Despite the heavy irony in that, Richie had accepted that it was to be his final venture into perfumed debonairhood. 

A voice in his head that sounded a lot like Stan Uris reminded him to stop distracting himself and to _focus._

Flipping through his mental catalogue of Things To Say To Fix Shit, he gave up and spit out the first words to land on his tongue. “Has anyone told you that Derry is a murder town?”

The pencil stilled. Stanley propped an eyebrow at him, uncertainty imbuing his face. 

He sat up straight, pushed his books and notebook away from him, and then turned his whole body to face Richie. He tucked his legs in, and listened with full attention.

“No.”

“It’s true. You’ll see how this place is. People get fucked up really bad, and no one does anything about it. They barely notice.” He braced himself to not go too far, not spill too many details of their own encounters. “We had a whole bunch of kids die, here. Adults, too.”

Stanley stared, his expression flat and stoic. “Are you bullshitting me, right now?” His chin tilted up in defiance, conviction in his gaze. “I’ve seen my share of crazy stuff, okay? If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work." 

Richie fixed his eyes on the pencil, Stanley’s self-bolstering reaction far too familiar for Richie’s comfort. 

“When I was seven, I was on the little league team. We had this coach who was a really nice guy. He had a roommate who was a guy, too. He’d come with him to practices, but the guy never bothered any of us. He just talked with the coach a lot. Was always watching him, always looked real happy. Anyway, one day during a game, we saw him kiss the coach on the cheek while they were talking after the game. Later that night there were police cars outside the house, and we rode our bikes over to see what was up, but they wouldn’t let us near it.”

His eyes drew to the baseball sat abandoned on the top shelf, almost high enough to be obscured from sight completely. He felt that awful, familiar dread in his gut.

“They’d disappeared completely, but left all of their stuff behind. Both of their cars. There were a lot of rumors that something really bad had happened to them, but no one would tell me anything. They told me to stop asking. All of the adults here. They said I wasn’t old enough to understand.” 

Stanley watched him closely while Richie talked, his features visibly melting in sympathy as he went on. 

“And I always thought, was it because he kissed him in front of everyone? It was just on the cheek, and they were off to the side of the crowd. Was it because half the town was there? Did the police ever know who did it?” Richie tugged at the hem of his shirt, twisting it over his hand. Nimble fingers played at a loose thread, longing for comfort. 

He looked up at Stanley, searching his body language for any sign of recognition, looking for clues as to what his own reaction should be. Was it normal to feel so haunted by it, to internalize it so personally, after all these years? “I don’t think they ever cared.”

Stanley noded, eyes heavy with understanding. “My dad--” he paused, pressing a fingertip to the pencil lying on his notebook and rolling it up and down the page. “He used to brag about this guy he and his friends beat really badly when he was in high school. He’d tell me all the time that if I ever grew up to be a -- if I ever turned out like that, he’d kill me.” His eyes dimmed. “And it’s not just him. Every Barber male tends to be a shithead, going way back, like, several generations. It’s been my goal to redeem the good old family name.” He accentuated the end of the sentence with a falsely cheerful thrust of his fist, the timbre of his voice belying the weight of his words. 

He hesitated, meeting Richie’s concerned look. “I used to wish that my dad would never come home. That he’d just stay gone. He drives an 18-wheeler, like, 25 days a month, but it would never feel long enough.” He rubbed at his shoulder, a phantom ache from an old injury unabating. “And then one day, my mom just decided that she was done with it. She waited until he was back on the road, packed us up, and we were gone. Just like that.” He swallowed hard. “And I mean, yeah, my life is way better with him not around. He hasn’t even tried to find us, or, or contact us. So, I don’t feel unsafe or anything.” He grew crestfallen, pressing his thumbnail against the cuticle at the side of his finger. 

Richie noticed. “You had to leave your whole life behind. Your friends.” It wasn’t a question. “The other day, when Mike asked you about Pennsylvania…”

“Oh,” Stanley said shyly, “Yeah.”

He met Richie’s stare with a quiet intention behind his eyes that Richie recognized, but could not place. “I never actually had… _real friends,_ before Syd and Dina.” He let the thought linger, and then drummed nervously with his fingertips at the carpeted floor. “But they’re fine, like-- I know that they’re happy, and that’s all that really matters...” he trailed off.

“Hey,” Richie leaned in next to him, crouching forward to look Stanley directly in the eyes. “I’m really sorry I’ve been such a dick lately.”

“You have?” Stanley was surprised. “When?”

“Dude…” Richie shook his head, too embarrassed to clarify, “You deserve to have friends. No one should have to just _be alone._

Stanley grew quiet for a beat, his attention returning to his pencil, twirling it slowly.

Unsure of what to say or do next, Richie jumped to his feet, wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans. 

He found himself lifting semi-dirty laundry-- only worn once or twice, which was far closer to clean than dirty in Richie’s book-- off of the surface of his desk and folding it neatly. Hyper aware of the silence in the room, he lifted his neon green Denver the Last Dinosaur shirt up from where it was draped over the back of his desk chair-- currently used as nothing more than a makeshift clothes hamper. He spread it out across the scattered junk on his desk, folding the arms of the shirt back before folding it in half, and then in half again.

If only Eddie could see him now.

“You picked the right people to be friends with, if you ask me. They’ve got a high tolerance for scientifically unexplainable phenomenons like you.” He gestured towards Stanley with one hand. “You know, face stealers and shit.”

Stanley’s smile perked up at the sides. 

“I’d be fucking dead without them, for sure. Or expelled, or something.” Richie set his shirt down, content with his effort for the day. He wandered over to his Rubik’s cube, lifting it up from where Stanley had placed it.

“I think Bev would’ve liked you. She was like a den mother for freaks.” He began shifting the cube in opposite directions, his eyes still focused on the shelf full of items. “Losers, outcasts… cool guys like me…” He rotated the cube to its side, and repeated the motions. 

From where Stanley sat, he could make out a few ticket stubs hanging over the ledge, next to a cluster of rocks. Richie watched them expectantly.

“I don’t know. It was nice having someone to talk to. About things.” His hands moved of their own volition, flicking each row to the side, rotating the block consistently. “She was like the sister I always wanted. One who actually liked being around me.”

He frowned, his thoughts shifting around uncomfortably.

“And the guys are, like, weirdly fucking adult about this whole thing. Her moving. Like it’s not a gut punch having our group lose a person. We weren’t supposed to leave each other. None of us were supposed to leave.”

Richie’s fingers toyed idly over the cube, twiddling over the colored rows before flicking them to the side, again. 

“But I don’t WANT to be okay with her being gone. And I keep thinking about ways we could get her back. And what I could’ve done to prevent her aunt from leaving in the first place. I- I didn’t do enough. I didn’t try hard enough to keep her from leaving.”

Richie’s breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling in small breaths. He continued to gaze at the items, wishing himself back into the memory lodged unspoken in his mind.

“I’m already starting to forget her. I don’t want to forget her.”

He turned his head to find Stanley’s eyes wide and rapt with empathy. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and Richie could feel the anger ebb away into something else. Something melancholy, something _shared._

Feeling it start to tickle his throat, he hummed away the sensation. He shrugged lightly, and looked down at his hands to find that the Rubik’s cube was complete.

Stanley followed his motion, jaw falling open at the sight. “Wait… how did you just…”

Richie’s mouth pulled into a grin, sloping to the side in a spontaneous moment of smug pride. He tossed the cube to Stanley, who marvelled at it in awe. 

He cupped the item in his hands like it was a flawless piece of art, and not a cheap plastic toy. “How the fuck-- you didn’t even look at this once! How did you do this?” He held up the cube, all sides one color each, demanding answers.

Richie winked at him, his sly smile pulling his face back into radiance. “A magician never reveals his secrets, Staniel.” Richie paused, wondering if he’d caught the familiar term he used solely for Stan Uris. But Stanley hadn’t even noticed the slip. He was looking down past the cube, unmoving, processing everything Richie had confided. 

When he lifted his eyes, they were awash with guilt. “I’m really sorry I compared you to my dad. You’re not like that.”

Richie waved him off, chuckling. “No worries. I can be a real asshole, sometimes.“

“No! You’re not!” he insisted, rubbing at his shoulder subconsciously. 

“Well,” Richie considered, tipping his head to the side in consideration, “I guess I’m no Henry Bowers...” He met Stanley’s quizzical expression. “He’s like if Freddy Krueger joined the Cobra Kai.”

Stanley recoiled. “And he goes to school with us?”

“Oh, no, not anymore. They lugged him off to the looney bin after he killed his dad. _He_ was an asshole, too. Worse, I guess.” Richie chewed at the side of his lip. “Anyway, you won’t have to worry about him. I doubt they’ll be letting him out for a long time.” Richie’s voice wavered with faulty reassurance.

Stanley’s brows pinched together. He corrected his posture, situating himself into a more upright position. “Why is this even something we should have to be thinking about? We’re in high school!”

“Huh?”

“Society. It’s still so narrow-minded and regressive. It’s 1991, for fuck’s sake. How are people still acting like it’s the fifties?”

“I wouldn’t worry about people at school too much. We Losers have your back now, mi amigo! If anyone gives you trouble, we’ll just sic Eddie on them. He’s like a rabid chihuahua, once you get him wound up. Plus, he’s short enough that he can nip at their ankles, and everyone knows that’s the most painful place you can bite someone.”

Stanley smiled warmly for a moment, then steeled himself with a tilted chin and clenched jaw in a move that Richie recognized. It was what Eddie would do, right before making a grand pronouncement in courage.

“I’m non-binary.” His eyes flicked up at Richie, his face careful.

"Cool." Richie nodded. "What's that mean?"

Stanley straightened his back even further, pulling his shoulders back in a hopeful show of assertiveness. "It means that I don't exclusively identify as a male or a female." 

Richie blinked.

Stanley tapped a fist absently against his notebook. "I mean..." he shifted, unsure of how to word his thoughts properly. "I don't really consider myself... I don't see myself as either."

Richie squinted, his hair falling over the temples of his glasses. "But you look like a guy... oh, is this a dude-wearing-a-dress thing? Like Monty Python?"

He groaned. "No, it's--"

"Holy SHIT you look just like Stan right now. Like, more than ever."

"Richie--"

"He makes that face at me ALL the TIME!"

Stanley took in the beaming grin on Richie’s face, one of curious excitement. Reminding himself that Richie wasn’t judging him, he relaxed a bit, and explained further. "Someone who is non-binary might feel like... a mix of genders, or like they have no gender at all. Personally, I identify outside of the gender binary entirely- I've never really felt exclusively masculine or feminine— at all, and it doesn't matter to me."

He bent his knees up to his chest, resting his forearms on them. "Honestly, it never really occurs to me what I am and am not supposed to be."

Richie’s expression was neutral. “Uh huh?”

"And sometimes, your-- your opinion can change, and evolve over time, as you get older. And that's okay, too." He tapped at his pencil, then schooled himself into returning Richie’s eye contact. It was plain to see that this was important to him, and that he was fighting to drum up confidence in discussing it. 

"Gender is a spectrum, just like sexuality is."

Richie rested a hand on his dresser. "No shit? I didn't know any of that... I mean, I’ve never heard of that, before. I always just thought of binary as computer code. Ones and zeros.”

He scooped down to pick up another Oreo Big Stuf left next to his Gameboy, and twirled around as he landed onto his bed with dramatic flair. He spread his open arms across his blanket, then pulled the hand with the cookie up to his mouth to open the package with his teeth. 

“So…. um,” Richie began. “What should I do differently?” The plastic wrapper crinkled loudly. “--So that I’m not such a Trashmouth about it?”

Stanley turned to lean a shoulder against the bed frame. “Some people choose specific pronouns that fit them individually. I’m okay with using He/Him, still. My mom uses He, and everyone at school sees me as a He, obviously… I guess it doesn’t feel wrong? To me? Not yet, anyway…I don’t know, maybe I’ll change it down the road, if it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.”

“Well,” Richie said through a mouthful of vanilla creme, “You’ll always be Barbarino in my heart, Stanley.” He tilted his head to offer a genuine smile to his friend, chocolate crumbs falling from his mouth and onto the bed.

Stanley blushed. "Thanks, Richie."

“An lick I sedd before...” he paused to swallow, “Anyone who gives you any shit will have to go through me second. I’ll fuck ‘em up. I’m not scared. I’ve got your back, mon frère!”

“...I’d have yours, too.”

Stanley waited a moment, then resituated himself so that he was facing Richie completely as he continued, ““You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

Richie stared at the ceiling for a long while, taking his time to thoroughly chew each bite. He’d heard plenty of classmates complain that the Big Stuf was _too_ big, but Richie felt that the universe had made this treat uniquely for him and his disproportionately large yapper. 

And now, it was providing him with time to stall while his central nervous system rebooted. 

When he did open his mouth to make a joke, he instead declared, “I’ve only been in love with him since kindergarten, okay, and that’s barely even nine years ago, so it’s not weird. I- _I’m_ not weird. I’m--” He pressed his face into his open palms. “I am so fucking lame.”

“Maybe you and Eddie can be lame together.”

Richie’s laugh was muffled behind his hands. “I think we’re flying a little too high, there, Icarus.”

"He likes you too, you know."

Richie peeked an eye out from between his fingers. "You think so?" 

Stanley nodded. "He's always staring at your lips when you’re talking to him, like he's about to kiss you. You haven't noticed?"

Richie shook his head quickly, but stayed silent, hoping to hear more. Stanley went on, "It's not just that, though. It's how you guys are together. Your banter, the way he bickers at you and only you, how in sync you guys are, how you’re always attached at the hip...” 

Stanley laid his arm onto the mattress, bending it to rest his head in his palm. “And a little birdie told me some interesting things about the two of you that he’s noticed since a looooong time ag--”

“Stan. I know it’s Stan.”

The smirk slid off of Stanley’s face. “Um.”

Richie squeezed his eyes shut and ran his fingers through his curls, tugging at the roots in frustration. “It’s not even-- you know, aside from _everything else_ ; if I said fuck all to Derry and Bowers and that pissface clown, I’d still-- I wouldnt’ know if I’m worth it. Like, do you have ANY idea--”

He sat up quickly, his cheeks flushed pink. “He’d be changing his whole life! Why risk something like that? Why would he date _me?_ And he could date anyone he wanted. He’s perfect!”

Stanley grabbed both of Richie’s ankles and spun him to the side, pulling blankets and sheets askew as he maneuvered the taller boy's body to face him.

“Because you’re the _fucking shit_ , Richie.” He stared him dead in the eye, so intensely that Richie didn’t dare look away. “Because you’re not going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself when you could be dating him instead.”

He rose to his feet. “And if you really think that you’re not good enough for him, ask any of your friends what they have to say about that. Because Bill said that you’re his best friend. That-- that you understand him better than anyone does. Literally, you finish his sentences for him. I saw it myself.” 

He splayed one hand out towards the window. “Stan said that you were the only one of his friends that showed up to his bar mitzvah. And according to Ben, you were the one that got the ball rolling for him and his girlfriend when you took both of them out to a movie together.”

Richie’s eyes flicked to the movie ticket stubs on the shelf. Stanley glanced at them, and then it clicked. He dipped his head in understanding. “Ah.”

He trailed his gaze to a movie poster for The Jerk, eyeballing a pantless Steve Martin in a robe clutching a chair as he continued, “I got the feeling that was the first time he’d ever really felt confident with himself, worthy of being included, and it was the same moment that he got to spend time with the girl of his dreams. I can’t imagine how invaluable that must have been for him, and you made it happen. Oh, and Mike said--”

He stopped when he saw that Richie was on the verge of crying, tears threatening to spill from behind thick lenses. 

He took a calming breath, and sat next to Richie on the bed. “And I don’t think that talking this out with Eddie would ruin anything. He clearly loves you, even if it’s just as a friend. You’re still going to be friends with him no matter what, unless he’s secretly some gay-hating Nazi, which-- you know, I can’t picture that. I can’t.” 

Richie choked out a wet laugh. “I guess it would be nice if things actually worked out. This whole ‘thinking about Eddie 24/7’ thing blows. It's exhausting. I can’t even look at tampons without thinking about him. If I keep getting detention, my mom’s going to take my super nintendo away, which is total bullshit.”

He added with a touch more steadiness in his voice, “And it’d be a lot of fun to watch his mom freak out about it. Her innocent angel of a baby boy dating Chief Trashmouth, a raging hormonal dumpster fire." He noticed the cookie crumbs stuck to his fingertips, and licked them clean. “You think he’d make out with me in front of her?”

“No.” He reached for a drink from the pile next to their feet. He popped the straw into the box, and levelled Richie with a mischievous look. “You know what you need?”

He smiled wide, opening his mouth in suspense.

“What?”

Stanley’s smile grew bigger as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead. 

“Please don’t do this to me.”

Stanley’s head jiggled minutely in anticipation.

“You’re killing me, here.”

“You need a wingman.”

If there was a contest for stunning Richie speechless, this kid would win the blue ribbon, leaving his competition in the dust. 

“Alright, bring it in.” Stanley looked confused, but when Richie reached out to scoop him into a bone-crushing hug, he went giddily, arm stretched out to keep the Hi-C from spilling.

Richie released him, resting a hand onto Stanley’s shoulder. “Ted, you and I have witnessed many things, but nothing as bodacious as what just happened.”

Stanley laughed and shook his head. “Strange things _are indeed_ afoot at the Circle-K, Richie.”

Richie jumped to his feet, threw both hands in the air and bellowed, “San Dimas, are you ready to rock?”

“That would be most excellent!” Stanley echoed with a devil horned fist thrown up in solidarity. He sipped joyfully at his Slimer Ecto Cooler drink and watched Richie give a full bodied air guitar performance.

He when he stopped to muse aloud that he should get himself a Wyld Stallyns shirt, Stanley asked, “Hey Richie… what clown?”

Richie froze. 

“Earlier, you said ‘pissface clown’. What did you mean?”

With a wholesome smile, he shrugged and said, “Ronald McDonald. Fuck that guy.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love when people use their words. 
> 
> I also love making '80s and '90s references, and I cannot be stopped. :D


	6. Chapter 6

.

The seven of them moved down the busy downtown sidewalks as a group, bumping into one another clumsily as they wandered in and out of various locally owned shops. Immediately bored with the jewelry shop displays and shooed out of the barber shop within moments of breezing past the front door, they found peculiar adventures within the Second Hand Rose antique pawn shop, saving gems like the record shop and the used book store for later in the afternoon.

The mid-September breeze blew Richie's curls playfully across his forehead as he jumped from the sidewalk to the road and then back again, skirting the curb like a game of hopscotch parkour.

He was deep into an intense conversation with Stanley, whose matching gestures of excitement were only hindered by the giant-sized cup of 7-11 fountain soda in his hand.

Richie continued to shout past Ben while he stomped. "And we'll keep the gigs local until we graduate, and then it's cross-country road trip time, baby. Trashmouth Tozier and the Sexy Six."

"I think Beverly would join," Ben blushed. "She has a beautiful voice. I think she'd be a great singer. You guys could sing duets together!"

"Trios, right Stantonio Banderas?"

Stanley laughed out loud, and threw finger guns in agreement, nearly dropping his drink. " _Bar-_ nderas!"

"Turns out our Stanley Numero Dos over here is quite the crooner. You should show them your impromptu hairbrush performance. Live and unplugged!" He ended his pedal gymnastics, quickly running out of breath.

"I d-d-d-- I can't play dr-dr-- I'm not a musician, Richie."

"No worries, B-Bill. We'll have you one-handing it like Rick Allen in no time!" He tucked his left arm behind his back. "The Thunder God waits for no one!" He began to air-drum a solo vigorously, singing _Pour Some Sugar On Me_ to confused pedestrians passing by.

Bill looked down at both of his fully intact hands in confusion.

"Don't joke about people losing their arms! Don't you know that's bad luck?" Eddie yelled.

"Yeah," Stan huffed in agreement, "One day _you'll_ end up losing your arm, Richie, and you'll wish you hadn't said that."

Richie’s face was split in two by his raucous grin, so infectious that it almost distracted Eddie from his indignation.

Almost.

He pushed himself between Ben and Richie as he barreled past them, ranting at breakneck speed.

“You’re not even thinking this through! You don't even have a job, how are you going to pay for gas money, electrical equipment-- Who would even want to listen to you sing, you're like a hyena-- YOU CAN'T HAVE A BAND IF NONE OF YOU ARE GOOD AT PLAYING INSTRUMENTS! Do you have any idea the failure rates of startup bands… why would you even risk-- So you're just not going to go to college with me, then!" With a swift chop of his hand to accentuate his point, he whirled around to face his target of fury.

But Richie had vanished. 

“Wait, where…” He turned his anger to Stanley, instead. “Do you have any idea how many people get KIDNAPPED in unfamiliar surroundings? Will you even be bringing your parents with you at all??"

Stanley stood paused in the middle of the sidewalk, head tilted back in a moment of serenity. He stretched both arms out wide at his sides, eyes closed, chest rising with a deep inhale. His shirt was colorfully loud; entirely made up of island scenery and tropical flowers. It was very much something that Richie would’ve worn.

He stood in transcendant silence, the soda perilously loose in his grip.

Eddie was baffled. "What are you doing?"

Stanley's sunglasses slipped down from where they were nestled in his hair and fell comically into place as he dropped his chin to look at Eddie.

“Isn’t it crazy how the world can be swarming with people, and feel so vacant at the same time?”

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?" Eddie asked with a propped eyebrow of impatience. “Did you guys see where Richie went? He was just here!”

Mike looked around, shrugging when he couldn't spot him amongst the crowd. "I think you're the one that's usually got tabs on the man, Eddie." He nudged playfully at the shorter boy with his elbow.

"Yeah, you're the d-d-designated R-Richie-sitter!" Bill cackled.

Eddie scowled, burying his face behind his balled fists. "That's not even the point, Bill! Stop laughing!"

He felt an arm swing around his shoulder, pulling him into a tight side-hug. He was surprised to look up and see Stanley grinning down at him.

"Heeeeyyyy?" He took a long sip, letting the awkward pause hang while Eddie glanced appalled at the hand squeezing his upper arm.

"Soooo..." he continued, nodding with a slick grin. "Word on the street is that you're single." He nodded, already satisfied with his own line of questioning.

"So what? What's wrong with that? Nothing's wrong with that. And who's even talking about me on the street?"

"As it turns out, Richie is _also_ single..."

Stan facepalmed so hard it sounded more like a slap. "Stanley, has anyone ever told you that you're _exactly_ as subtle as Richie?"

"Speaking of Richie, I've got an idea... You're into movies, right Eddie?"

A deep blush settled over Eddie's cheeks. "Yeah, why?" He crossed his arms in defense. "Everyone likes movies."

"And you think that Richie is pretty cool, right?"

Eddie froze. He looked slowly up at Stanley, the anger finally draining from his eyes, replaced by something Stanley couldn't read.

"Well, since you're single, and Richie's single, it only makes sense if--"

"Hey, Eds!" The sound of Richie's voice had Eddie's head whipping to the side in search of him. "Richie?"

Richie hurried towards them with something bulging from within his shirt. He had his arms wrapped around whatever was squirming inside, trying to both protect and contain it.

“Guess what I've got!” He smiled radiantly, bursting at the seams. 

"What is it?" asked Ben.

"No, I mean I want you to guess." 

Stan took in the size of the wiggling object. "You didn't steal someone's baby, did you?"

The thing inside his shirt barked, and a tiny, furry head popped up through his collar.

"It's a puppy!" Ben squealed.

The group rushed forward, patting its head and accepting its eager kisses, all while being held tenderly in Richie's arms, still sharing the neck hole of his shirt with him.

He was light brown and fluffy, with dark patches of fur around his ears, eyes, and mouth. His face was split into the widest, happiest smile, much like the boy holding him.

Eddie hung back behind the others, nervously considering his chances of contracting rabies.

"C'mere, Eds. I got him for you!" 

“I-- why would you do that? That doesn’t make any sense." His voice was tender, like that time Richie surprised him with a handmade comic book starring the two of them, pencilled in on lined paper, stapled together unevenly. "You know I’m allergic.”

“Are you sure you're allergic, though?” Mike asked carefully. Everyone in Derry knew about Sonia Kaspbrak forcing different ailments and hospital treatments on her son. But even two years after Eddie had discovered the truth, he had some habits left to shake.

Richie offered quickly, "He's hypoallergenic. I remember because Ben and I were talking about shit like that awhile back."

"You remembered which kinds of dogs don't cause allergic reactions?"

The implication of _why_ he'd retain that information hung between them, and Richie tittered nervously.

"No worries, Eds. Even if you were covered in hives and puffed up like a beach ball, I'd still think you were cute." He smooched in Eddie's direction.

Eddie held eye contact, taking a step closer. "There must be plenty of breeds like that, Rich. What would make you remember something so specific?"

The pinkness of Eddie's cheeks were nothing compared to the deep blush of Richie's.

Ben massaged behind the puppy's ear. "He's a great choice, Richie. Border Terriers are intelligent, alert, fearless...they make excellent playmates."

Richie nodded, beaming. "They like to explore outdoors and be active, so he could come with us on our adventures... Or even if you just wanted to go for a run, he'd keep up with you, because he's competitive like you!"

Eddie tilted his head to the side, studying both Richie and the puppy.

"He's really low maintenance, Eddie, I swear! They're supposed to be really easy to train, and are hard workers. They stay really focused on things. That's what I read, anyway..." He trailed off.

Mike looked back over his shoulder while running his finger along the crease between the puppy's eyebrows. "That really does sound like a perfect match for you, Eddie."

"And you don't have to be afraid of him. They're known for being obedient, even-tempered, and they won't snap at you or anything."

"...Maybe not entirely like Eddie..." Mike chuckled lightheartedly.

"I g-guess you c-can't win them all." Bill glanced at Stan, sharing a knowing smirk.

Richie snuggled the puppy tightly into his chest. "Don't listen to them. You're perfect." The puppy yipped excitedly in response, nudging at Richie's jawline. "They have a long life expectancy, and they stay pretty tiny..." There was hope in his voice, Eddie could tell. Richie had already fallen in love with him, and wasn’t ready to have to give him up.

Bill's hand came to a halt. "Richie... where d-d-did you get him?" His eyebrows picked up in the middle. "You didn't sssteal him, did you?"

Richie pointed in the direction of the laundromat on the other side of the road, several lots down. "That lady in the hat has a whole box full of puppies".

Without a word, the five of them bolted, Stanley and Bill giggling as they shoved lightly at each other to get there first.

Eddie watched them scurry away, the wind playing at his hair. It was getting so long that the ends had begun to curl.

When he looked back, Richie was gently nudging at the tiny, fuzzy bundle wrapped securely in his embrace, one finger stroking the side of his face, the puppy's eyes squeezed closed in pure bliss.

He took slow steps towards them, gazing up adoringly. He could feel the warmth flooding his veins. "You really got him for me?"

Richie shrugged one shoulder. "I've been thinking about it for awhile..." he conceded. "They get _so happy_ when people are affectionate with them that when they get used to it, they come ask you for hugs! Can you believe that?"

"Is that really true?" Eddie took another step closer.

"Yeah! They're like miniature humans."

Eddie got close enough to reach him, his careful hand inching towards the puppy. It wriggled joyously, shaking with anticipation.

He took a deep breath and placed his flat palm on the top of its head, surprised at how soft and ticklish it felt. His fingers loosened, curling around the back of its skull, caressing its soft ears with his fingertips.

The puppy nuzzled Eddie's hand, rotating his cheekbone back and forth against him. Eddie pressed into it, ever so slightly, making it easier for him.

"He's so cute." Eddie could feel his fears of the unknown ebb away. "But Rich," he continued, so faintly that it was barely audible. "You know my mom will never let me keep him. She just won't."

Richie's face fell. Before his mind could begin a desperate scramble of reassurance, Eddie offered, "Maybe we could keep him at your house?"

His heart skipped a beat as he looked at Eddie dreamily. _We._

"Yeah?" Richie blushed.

"Yeah." Eddie stepped closer yet, the toes of his shoes pressing against Richie's on the sidewalk. He said with a little more confidence as he scritched at the puppy's forehead. "I could come over and visit him."

Richie smirked. "What do you think we should name our son?"

“Otter. He looks like an otter, so... wait, did you just--” Before Eddie could finish, the puppy licked his hand, covering it in slobber. Eddie yelped in the highest octave his voice could reach, Otter echoing a loving squeak back at him.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shirt. This shirt right here. Just look at it. :D
> 
>   
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter was getting long, so I broke it into three. Chapter 8 will pick up where this one leaves off.

.

"Sup, fuckers!" Richie greeted as he flung Stanley’s front door open, gangly limbs falling into place against the inside of the door frame. He threw on a seductive look, arms bracing himself to lean forward, and wiggled his eyebrows enticingly.

Eddie and Bill squished through the doorway at the same time, both determined to be the first inside. They plowed past Richie, ignoring him entirely in favor of the smell of brownies that hit them upon entering. Richie flailed backwards, catching himself from falling with a graceless pirouette.

Mike, Ben, and Stan followed behind, walking into Stanley’s home single-file like the civilized beings they were.

Despite none of them having been to Stanley’s house before, they quickly made themselves familiar, headed straight to the kitchen like they were led by a divine force.

Richie skipped ahead, joining the others to find Stanley sprawled comfortably on his back on the kitchen counter, arms tucked behind his head.

“Where are they?”

“Where’re what, Spag-Eds?" He tossed his head back merrily towards Stanley and informed, "He loves it when I call him that."

_"I do not!"_

Bill wrenched open the oven to find a large pan of chocolate brownies with chocolate syrup swirls, already baked and cooling.

Ben’s eyes sparkled like diamonds. “Wowwww…” He looked at Stanley, full of appreciation. “You made these to share with _us_?”

“That was really nice of you!” Stan beamed. His shy smile crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“Best brownies you’ve never had, Staniel.” Richie’s cartoonishly big eyes shone maniacally behind bottlecap lenses, his mischievous grin stretching from cheek to cheek. Stanley flipped his head to the side and flicked his eyebrows suggestively. He gave Stan an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“...What do you mean, Richie?” Stan’s face flickered through a series of hesitant emotions until it hit him. “No… _no_ , not the brownies!” His disappointment fizzled quickly into a steeled look of defiance as he balled his hands into fists at his sides. He tilted his chin up in dissent, a very Stan-esque gesture that Richie was all too familiar with. 

Lips squeezed together in determination, he power walked over to the oven, slipping on the thick mitts and pulled the pan off of the rack. Bill was still standing next to it, watching the tray with a heartfelt devotion. 

Stan carried it to the fridge, opened the door with delicate maneuvering and placed it into the back of the shelf, being careful to avoid disrupting the placement of any condiment bottles. 

He closed the door, turned around, and stared blankly at Richie.

“We don’t get any brownies?” Ben asked, crestfallen.

Stan shook his head. “No. This is what’s best for everyone.”

...

A short while later, they were gathered in the living room, Mike and Ben sharing the La-Z-Boy recliner with a delighted Otter, with Richie, Stan, and Stanley seated on the stretch couch. 

Mike was in the middle of a polite discourse on the differences between the effects of indica and sativa when Eddie walked in with a large tray of pizza rolls. “I put the bagel bites in the oven, Stanley. I hope you don’t mind that I made all three boxes.” Otter yipped in approval, nestled into Mike’s arms. 

Eddie smirked at Richie, “We’re going to need them all, since Richie likes to scarf down food before anyone else gets a chance.” He set the tray and the pot holders onto the coffee table, standing up and eyeing the seating arrangement. 

Just when his eyes had landed on the empty space between Richie and Stan, Bill ran into the room at top speed and cannonballed into the vacant spot. Eddie’s face fell ever so slightly.

Bill righted himself and stretched an arm across the back of the couch, leaning over Stan to face Stanley. “I d-d-didn’t know you had Toaster Strudels!” He patted the chest pocket of his flannel shirt. “I made an extra for the walk home.”

“Sweet!” Stanley bobbed his head. “Just make sure you leave the frosting packet closed until you’re ready to eat it, or it’ll melt and leak all over your pocket.”

“...Oh.” Bill looked down nervously at his shirt. “Huh.”

Eddie pursed his lips, still standing over the cooling pizza rolls, still watching the now taken seat by Richie.

Stanley took a pizza roll and began nibbling on a corner. Bill grabbed a handful and popped them into his mouth, wincing around the burning hot sting as he spoke. “We ca- moof ofer, Ettie.” He chewed with difficulty, his face growing contorted as he powered through it anyway.

“Hey Richie, why don’t you squeeze in towards Bill so Eddie can sit down?” He shot a pointed glance in Richie’s direction, tilting his head with glaringly obvious intention.

Richie smiled, and turned back to Eddie. “Or you can just sit in my lap.” He raised a lascivious eyebrow in challenge. “Throne fit for a king, baby!”

Everyone waited for the angry retort to follow, the usual routine in their bickering.

Instead, Eddie blushed, eyeing Richie up and down in quiet consideration. “Why don’t you make me, Trashmouth?” His words were dripping with provocation, stunning the other boys into surprised silence. 

Richie, caught off guard, stuttered, “Uh, uh, I--” 

“ _Uh, uh,_ what’re you gonna do about it, coward?” Eddie taunted.

Richie’s jaw dropped. He looked to his left for help. Stan looked right back at him with crossed arms. “Yeah, Richie, _what are you going to do about it_?”

“Stan!” Richie’s voice cracked. Stan smiled gleefully, the lost promise of brownies now avenged. 

Richie whipped his head back to Eddie. “I’m the chair you’ve been dreaming of! No need to be shy.” He slapped his thighs with flat palms as encouragement for Eddie to climb on board. Instead, Otter came running over from the recliner, little tail wagging joyfully. He took his rightful place in Richie’s lap, mouth open in a wide jack o'lantern smile. 

Their friends burst into laughter, insisting to the puppy through gasps of giggle-induced hysteria that he was, indeed, a good boy. 

Eddie watched for a moment as Richie sighed in defeat, scooping Otter up into a hug. He nudged at his face in consolation. 

Eddie dropped to his knees in front of the pair of them, reaching for a pizza roll with one hand while petting their shared companions head with the other. Otter licked at Eddie’s fingers lovingly. 

“Wow, Eds! You got used to dog drool really fast!”

“It’s alright,” Eddie smiled up at him. “I’ve got hand sanitizer in my fanny pack.”

They all took turns diving into the tray of now less-than-lava-hot pizza rolls, gobbling them up like starved scavengers. 

Stan looked to his side and gasped in horror to find Stanley enjoying a large chunk of his special-batch brownies, the cooled pan resting in his lap. 

He looked to the kitchen, and then back to Stanley. “When could you have possibly… I didn’t even see you get up! No one got up!”

Stanley smiled a bright mouthful of chocolate in response. 

...

“ROUND 2!” the disembodied voice prompted.

Richie’s hand flew frenzied over the buttons, hitting red and blue simultaneously with his index and ring fingers. He toggled the joystick with his left, putting all of the adrenaline in his body into his character’s attacks. The Street Fighter stand shook with his and Stanley’s combined efforts. 

His Ryu did spin kicks in the air, hovering as his foot kicked Stanley’s avatar in the face repeatedly. 

“Eddie kicks me in the face like that, sometimes.”

“Only when you deserve it,” Eddie protested from behind him. He and Bill had been standing there for what felt like ages, impatiently awaiting their turn. But after every round, the lineup stayed the same.

Stanley’s face scrunched up in determination. His chosen Street Fighter, Joe, began kicking his leg at his opponent. 

“I’m making him kick you in the balls!” he snorted. 

“Okay, okay, you’ve got one good move… but who’s the reigning champion?” Richie took his hand away long enough to adjust his glasses, the frame gradually slipping down his nose. “Whose butt did you have to kiss to get in here?”

“The line is long and distinguished,” Stanley answered, wiggling the joystick in frustration.

“Just like my Johnson!” Richie grinned.

“Richie, what are you talking about? This arcade is a public place. Anyone can get in. All you have to do is walk through the door!” Eddie crossed his arms, not enjoying the feeling of being left out of Richie’s nonsense.

Joe did a few jump stomps, but it was followed up by Ryu’s roundhouse kick that sent Joe flying, and Stanley groaned in dismay.

“Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash.”

“Wait, you guys are doing that thing, again… what movie are you quoting now?”

Richie answered without taking his eyes off of the game. “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“Stop being stupid and tell me the movie!”

Stanley glanced over his shoulder, smiling at Eddie. “It’s--”

“Don’t tell him.” 

Eddie felt instantly betrayed.

Bill leaned over. “They feel the n-need… the n-n-need, for sp-speed.”

“Oh. Just say ‘Top Gun’ next time. You don’t have to be a dumbass, Richie.” He crossed his arms. 

But Richie wasn’t listening, landing the final blow to his opponent. 

“Undefeated!” He threw both fists in the air, quick to scramble for a coin as soon as the countdown for the next game began. “You up for another round?”

Stanley caught the deflated sigh behind him. “Ah, I think Eddie should go next.” With an encouraging look, he held out his “No Cash Value” token for Eddie to take. 

The smaller boy eyed it reluctantly, and shrugged. “No thanks. You guys play some more. I’m not in the mood.” He walked away without a word, leaving Bill looking around confused. Stanley turned the token in Bill’s direction, and pressed it into his open palm. He sped off in Eddie’s direction.

Bill stepped up to the game just in time to enter the coin and slam the start button before the game restarted from the beginning. 

“Jesus, Bill, take a little longer next time. You almost ruined my streak!”

Bill frowned. “No one ever beats your score anyways.”

Richie rolled his eyes. Noticing the lack of Bill’s stutter, he recalled the time they snuck in and saw the movie in theaters, all the way back in the fourth grade. Back when it was just him, Bill, Stan, and Eddie.

“But you remember one thing, Bill…” he said, affecting his best Admiral voice, letting Bill in on the quote game. “You screw up just this much, you’ll be flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog shit out of Hong Kong!” 

Bill smiled brightly. “Yes, sir!”

He faced the screen just in time to see his character get knocked out with a fireball.

“But I j-j-just got here!”

.


	8. Chapter 8

.

“Hey Eddie, wait up!”

Stanley hurried past Mike and Ben playing air hockey at the small table next to the popcorn machine. Stan was quietly perusing the movie posters by the front doors, taking great interest in the credits at the bottom of each page.

The entrance doors were half glass, with more glass panelling climbing up towards the ceiling. Even in the early Tuesday evening hours when the sun was low and fading out of its glowing orange, the rays shining through illuminated the spanse of the arcade lobby, turning the small space into something roomier, more spacious. 

Stanley hooked a right turn past the ticket booth and swung open the glass door underneath the Balcony sign. The Capitol theater might have been an old institution in a small town, but the lobby was far nicer than the arcade itself, with cushioned armchairs and carpeted staircases leading in multiple directions. 

Eddie sat slumped in the chair on the left, staring at the opposite wall in glum disappointment.

To most of Derry’s longtime residents, Eddie was an angelic looking kid. Despite having recently turned fifteen, he was still short, slender, and with a doe-eyed baby face that could easily peg him as a tween.

In the short time Stanley had known him, Eddie had been polite and soft-spoken to most outside of the Losers Club, always using his manners. He was the kind of dream child any parent would want. He even referred to his mother as “Mommy”, though probably more out of habit than a genuine bond.

And if the squeaky, varying pitches of his voice weren’t enough to deem him innocent, his youthful choice of clothing would snag him the title. From the little-boyish cartoon television t-shirts to the bright red rainbow patched short shorts, he seemed to be the epitome of eternal adolescence.

But Stanley knew all too well that a whole world of bottled up rage and seething self-hatred could be found in the tiniest of packages. Even the most average, seemingly well-adjusted types can carry the biggest, darkest weight on their shoulders.

He wondered what life would have been like for Sydney Novak if she’d had a loyal pack of losers of her own.

He took a seat at the bottom step of the staircase next to Eddie’s chair. 

He looked weary, staring unfocused at the wall opposite him, barely registering that Stanley had entered the room. 

“You know, Eddie, I’ve found that sometimes you’ve got to go specifically out of your way to shake things up, when you’re feeling down. Invite chaos in to get the adrenaline pumping. Create yourself some good old fashioned fun. Take some chances. That’s what life’s all about. If this-- My leg fell asleep. One sec.” 

Stanley stood and braced one hand on the staircase railing as he slung one foot behind him, gripping his ankle and contorting himself into a downward-facing yoga pose, his leg hoisted up behind him, shoulders dipping to the ground. He exhaled as his head lowered, soft curls skirting the carpet floor. 

Without explanation, he returned to his seat on the step and continued, “If this isn’t your scene, we can walk up these steps right now and fuck some shit up. I heard that if you draw on the film reel, it’ll put pictures into the movie scenes. We could draw middle fingers! Or, no, wait, even better.” He sliced his arm up and diagonally through the air, hand reaching towards the horizon, accentuating the grandeur of his point. “We draw dicks, instead. That’d probably cause a bigger scene. It might even make the newspaper!”

Eddie hadn’t moved.

“Too anti-establishment, I get it. Scratch that idea, here’s a better one: The seven of us head to the diner and order all of their ice cream. Like, ALL of the ice cream. We’ll pool our money together and tell them to just bring out those giant barrels of ice cream that they get delivered, and we start a contest of who can--”

“How are you this confident?” Eddie shook his head in wonder. “How do you just…”

Stanley listened, waiting for Eddie to find the right words.

Eddie sighed with exhaustion, his bones weary. “How do you just say and do whatever comes to your mind, like that?” He rubbed his palms into his eyes. “Richie does that, and I always thought that he was some sort of anomaly, like he never felt any shame or self-awareness. But. I think that maybe I’m just a fucking coward.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” Stanley was dumbfounded. “Hang on…”

“It’s true.”

“What have you ever done that was cowardly?”

“Are you kidding me? Hello, have you met me?” His eyes widened with intensity. “I have so many phobias, I’m like a walking encyclopedia, I basically-- I can't even breathe right!

He punctuated his words with one hand chopping into the other. "I let my mom make every single decision for me because I'm too afraid that if I do the choosing, I'll get it wrong. I could really fuck up my future. I could end up in the hospital, or- or even dead!"

His eyes squeezed together in humiliation. "And I know that she lies, and that everyone knows about my mom, and that she's crazy. But it can’t all be lies, right? I don't know what's real or not, so I never try anything new. I'm always scared."

He took a deep breath, feeling that familiar rattling in his lungs. 

"I wish my dad hadn't died. I can barely remember him anymore.” He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as he blinked away tears. “Maybe she wouldn't be so crazy if he were still here. Or maybe he'd take me away and it'd be just the two of us, and I could have become someone better."

He stopped, and shook his head, his lungs rising with sharper intakes. Recognizing the unhealthy patterns that cycled through him, his eyes dulled, brimming with tears.

“Fuck it,” Eddie shrugged. “I’m fucking hopeless! I'm too afraid to try out for the track team. THE TRACK TEAM! Who would be afraid of that?!?"

Stanley placed a comforting hand on Eddie's knee, startling the younger boy and making him recoil.

"I don't want to be nothing! I don't want to be weak anymore. There’s supposed to be all these major things happening for me in life, and I’m going to miss out on all of them! I can’t!” 

Stanley pulled his hand away, carefully pulling himself into a sitting position on the floor in front of Eddie.

He stared at his hands, folded together in his lap. "I'm not really all that confident, though, you know?" He hesitated. "I didn't have any friends before high school. And even then, it was just two."

Eddie was lost in thought before the words stuck.

“I didn’t have anyone.” Stanley’s brown eyes shone with sadness. “I’ve always been the outcast, growing up. They all told me I was a freak. But I _like_ who I am, and there’s never been anything wrong with me.” He sat up straighter, making an effort to keep himself poised. 

“I was just surrounded by small minded people. I know that… But it never feels good to be alone. To have no one give you a chance. So I made myself fake it, live every day like I knew I could do anything until one day I finally believed it.”

He balled up his right hand in a small pump of timid victory, and tapped it against the carpet. 

“You could do that, too, you know. Pretend you’re not afraid. Eventually, it’ll happen. I know it will.”

Eddie chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered something. “Your friends... they really helped you come a long way?”

Stanley’s face lit up. “I mean, yes and no… my life has been a million times better having them in it, for sure.”

Eddie watched him carefully. “But then you had to leave them.”

Stanley’s face drained, sensing the parallels and seeing no way past it.

Eddie craned his neck to see Stan by the front entrance of the arcade, smiling at the poster for the movie Hook, due to come out that December. He remembered the question Stan asked them two years prior, down in the clubhouse.

_Do you guys think we’ll still be friends, when we’re older?_

"We’re in high school, now. This is all we’ll have left.”

_Things might be different. We all might be different._

“We're all going to go our own ways. I don't even know what I want to do with my life, and they’ll be gone."

"You'll have Richie with you," Stanley said meaningfully.

"That's not realistic." 

“How do you know?” 

Eddie sighed petulantly and rolled his eyes, pressing his head back against the chair in defeat. “Trust me.”

A long moment of silence passed before Stanley spoke up, voice choked.

"...Can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone before?" 

Eddie nodded, and Stanley squeezed his own hands into fists to summon up the courage.

“I met a superhero once.” His lips pressed together like they were forbidding him any further. He shook his head, and quickly spit it out all in one go. “...But like, the bad kind? I’ve seen horrifying things. Bloody, violent-- I’ve seen people get murdered. Not like on tv, but like--”

“Gory,” Eddie supplied, eyes wide as saucers.

“I got knocked out cold at a school dance, and when I woke up, the guy was decapitated and laying in a pool of his own blood. His head had _exploded_! I’ve seen whole rooms get demolished in a second, trees ripped right from the roots--”

“I believe you.” Eddie’s voice was frantic, his eyes swimming with desperation. “You’ve seen It, too?”

“I…” Stanley paused, unsure how to react to Eddie’s unabashed acceptance of something he never envisioned confessing. “Yeah, I’ve seen it all.” He blinked tears away. “I can’t ever unsee it. All this time later, and I still-- I still have nightmares. And the worst part… the worst part was not knowing if the people you care about are okay, or if they’re going to die, too.” His voice cracked at the end, and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his arm. “Not knowing if I could ever save them, if they needed me to.”

Tears poured down Eddie’s cheeks. It was as if the taller boy were reciting his own traumas back to him in poetic irony.

“I’m so sorry, Stanley!”

“But they’re safe!” He threw his hands up, placating. “They’re okay. I’m okay. We made it past all of that. That’s what I’m saying…” He shifted up onto his knees, locking eyes with Eddie once again. “All of the what ifs have already happened for me. I survived them. The fact that I won’t be there to see my friends graduate, or spend every day with them when they’re off to college-- it’s fine, because they’re alive, and they’re safe, and that’s all that matters to me anymore.” 

They were both sobbing, now. “It’s all that matters to me, is that they’re okay. And I know it would hurt them a lot if I had let things wear me down, if I had let loneliness ruin me. Me moving on, living each day the best I can, making new friends; that’s what would make them happy. Me being free and taking every chance in life that I get makes them happy. And so that’s what I’m going to do…” He trailed off as Eddie’s face grew redder, and he hiccuped an inhale.

“I was SO SCARED!” Eddie’s hands slammed down onto his knees. “And it’s not over! What if it’s never over!”

Stanley’s eyes flicked back and forth between Eddie’s, utterly lost. “Eddie, what do you mean?”

His shoulders convulsed as his lungs failed him, his breaths raspy and thick. Eddie’s vision grew hazy as every emotion clashed against one another within him. Anger, sadness, compassion, terror, impotence-- a total, all-out lack of control. 

It was enough to send him scrambling for his inhaler. His nimble fingers searched blindly through his fanny pack, muttering to hysterically himself about how disorganized the pouch had become.

“Eddie?”

Feeling the plastic under his fingertips, he gripped it tightly and wrenched it from the pack.

As his chest rose and fell with jagged gasps for air, he stared it down, hovering several inches from his face, eyes tracing over the letters stickered around the metal top.

They narrowed, face scrunching in repulsion.

“Eddie, what’s happening?” Stanley’s words sounded watery, like he was further away than he was.

The familiar cloak of disgust engulfed him, wove its way through him.

“Hey, hey, breathe! Please breathe!”

The words poured from Eddie’s mouth in an emotional babble. “I don’t have asthma! I don’t have asthma! It’s a crutch! It isn’t real!”

“You’re right, it isn’t real. You can beat this.” He surveyed Eddie’s deteriorating state. “Is it a panic attack? Put your hands behind your head!"

"This isn't a bank robbery!" Eddie's breaths were getting harsher, more pained.

Stanley racked his brain for a solution, torn between wanting to alert the others and protecting Eddie’s privacy.

He made a quick decision. "Do this!" He leaned back and spread his arms way out to the sides, taking a deep breath in before yelling at the top of his lungs.

Eddie's head swung back in shock, darting around for an angry adult to pop out and scold them. "Stanley, no!"

But the taller boy only inhaled to shout again.

"You're-- you're going to get us kicked out! STOP IT!"

He felt his cheeks flush with fury as Stanley looked _happy_ to be yelling. "WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS? YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO YELL INDOORS!"

The guy manning the customer-less ticket booth peeked his head around the corner, looking at the two of them, bewildered.

Eddie's brows furrowed into the bridge of his nose. "AND JUST WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT!" The head whipped back out of sight, and Eddie felt exhilarated.

With wild eyes, he turned back to Stanley, balled up both fists in front of his own face, and yelled. He yelled at how at ease Stanley looked doing this. How he wasn't scared in the slightest, like he'd never been in trouble before.

He closed his eyes and yelled at his mother. He yelled at anyone who had ever beaten him, threatened him, taunted him, and made him feel worthless.

He yelled at the clown who had stolen his chance at a normal childhood, leaving him with nightmares and an arm that throbbed with ache every time it rained. The one who had almost taken away the people he loved the most.

He yelled at himself for all of the times he'd prevented his own happiness out of fear of the unknown. He yelled at who he was going to become if he didn't force himself to be brave.

He ran out of breath, taking a staggered inhale to refill his lungs. He opened his eyes to find Stanley staring back at him like he was the most awe-inspiring thing he'd ever witnessed.

Stanley's mouth was gaping wide, slowly curling into a smile. He looked _proud_.

Feeling the adrenaline hit him hard, Eddie doubled over with laughter. He slumped over, giggling, trying to pull himself up by Stanley's shoulder only to collapse into giggles all over again.

Stanley was laughing, too, his shoulder shaking under Eddie's grip.

“You know what?” Eddie asked, looking happy for the first time since exiting the arcade, “Fuck this heap of garbage.” 

With that, he chucked his inhaler across the room, meeting the wall with a loud smack. The boys cheered on the metaphor of Eddie’s unshackled victory, despite it having clattered to the floor unharmed. 

“Okay, now how do I do this?”

Stanley was on both feet, twirling in a large circle with both arms held high. “Do what?”

“Get bolder.”

“Well…” Stanley shrugged, then immediately leapt back theatrically, swaying his body from side to side. “Start dancing.”

He began slinging his hips, feet creating a secret dance all their own. His arms lumbered high and low, a quiet song emanating from his lips. 

Eddie watched him with a smile. “How the hell does Richie think you’re cooler than the rest of us? Is this what you guys do? Should I have been dancing all these years?”

“Yes!” he laughed in return. “And that’s total bullshit, by the way. Richie thinks you’re the coolest cat on the planet!” His left foot took a wide circumference around his body, twirling him like a spastic ballerina. 

“I’m not cool, Stanley. I’m _lame_.”

Stanley glanced up to make sure Eddie wasn’t backpedalling, but the pleased grin with his crossed arms was reassurance enough for Stanley to continue without breaking his stride. 

“Uh huh. Sure. You’re the one who’s got Richie cutting up your lunch for you. Practically feeding you. I’m impressed!” He added an imperial royalty clap to his lively performance. 

“Ha! Yeah right! You’re practically his personality CLONE. All your inside jokes… of course Richie thinks you’re cooler. If Richie could make a million Richies, he would.” He bubbled with laughter, feeling good. Feeling hopeful.

Stanley swayed both arms in front of him, cutting in on the other’s angle like a swordfight. “Please, I’m not the one he’s in love with.”

It took a few steps before Stanley’s feet slowed, the reality of what he just said sinking in. “Oh, shit…” 

He turned to see Eddie watching him in earnest, his arms gently falling to his sides. "Are you serious? Or are you messing with me?" 

His dancing at an abrupt end, Stanley covered his face with his hands. "Please don't tell him I said that. God, I'm the worst wingman ever."

What Eddie said next was in the softest, most innocent voice he had ever heard.

"Wingman?"

Stanley’s fingers lowered to reveal terrified eyeballs.

Eddie was doing the math in his head. "You mean..." He looked away from Stanley for a moment, staring long and hard out the glass doors of the lobby and into the arcade. He couldn't see the Street Fighter console from where they were sitting, but it was in Richie's direction nonetheless.

"Isn't a wingman... isn't that someone who..." He turned back to meet Stanley's eyes, and he had all the answer he needed.

Now more flummoxed than ever, Eddie did the thousand-mile stare again, and then bolstered himself on his feet. Without a word, he turned and stomped off towards the door.

“That’s it!”

He flung it open with Kaspbrakian aggression and stomped back into the arcade section.

“Wait, Eddie, I can’t tell if you’re mad or not…” He scampered after him.

.


	9. Chapter 9

.

His head whipped from one side to another, noting the scarcity of people in the lobby. A few younger kids had taken over the air hockey table, shouting and spilling popcorn over the edges and onto the floor with their violent clanging.

The smell of warm buttered popcorn from the self-serve fueled something in him, boosting the sense memory of what was already flooding his peripherals. 

_Richie._

Stan was now playing Street Fighter with Bill, Richie watching happily from the side as noises of slaps and grunts emitted from the speakers.

The sounds of dueling arcade games battled distractingly, the flashing lights alternating neon colors onto Richie’s cheekbones.

He turned as Eddie was approaching, as his internal Kaspbrak sensor had a knack of alerting his brain whenever Eddie was nearby.

“Hey Eds! You big stuuuuuud!” growled in a thick southern accent, totally oblivious to Eddie's rampant determination.

“Richie, I--” 

“Take me to bed or lose me for-ehv-er.” 

“Jesus christ.” He came to a stop in front of him, taking in a full view of the tall, lanky brunet. Out of breath and half-crazed from the tail end of his meltdown, he reached for the lapels of Richie’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, loose-fitting over his white Rock Lobster tee, and pulled him in close.

"Listen up, Dickhead. If you wanted to kiss me, all you had to do was say so.”

Richie’s grin wavered at the ends, his eyes flicking unreadably up over Eddie’s shoulder to Stanley, who’d rushed in behind Eddie and now balanced unsteadily on the balls of his feet. He chewed the inside of his cheek, face awash in the awkward guilt of a co-conspirator who’d been caught in the act.

“Hell yeah, baby. You tell me where you want it, and this pucker’s ready!” His voice cracked at the end. 

"I mean it, Rich." His eyes flicked back and forth between Richie's. In this close proximity, he could see flecks of mischief magnified by thick lenses, his gaze a galaxy unto itself. It was hard to tear away from.

“I love it when you boss me around, Edward Scissorhands. Tell me I’ve been bad!”

Eddie flustered in agitation. “Will you shut the fuck up for a minute?” He shook at the fabric balled up in his fists, causing Richie to grin harder than ever.

“How will I explain to your mom that I’m cheating on her with her own son? I guess I’m gonna have to bone her extra hard toni--”

Eddie shot up onto his toes and pressed his lips against Richie’s, closing the remaining distance between them. He felt his knees begin to buckle, and clung to Richie’s shirt for dear life.

The music from the overhead speakers faded in and out as his eardrums pounded back against the furious pace of his heartbeat, both amplifying and silencing all sounds in the otherwise raucous playroom. 

Not yet ready to open his eyes, he slid back down until his heels hit the floor. His frayed nerves had him so on edge, he wondered if this was all a colossal mistake; if he had taken Stanley’s good advice in an entirely wrong direction. 

But his subconscious mind pushed back, showing him memory after memory of Richie being there for him, looking out for him, protecting him. Watching him. It was impossible to miss, and Eddie kicked himself for living in denial of it for so long.

He looked down at their shoes, threadbare from time and adventure, standing in stark contract against a filthy, dirt-and-food-worn carpet.

“I drew a heart with an R in it on the Kissing Bridge. A long time ago. Did you see it?”

The thumping against his rib cage grew unbearable, and he looked up to see a pale and stricken Richie, features wrought with sadness.

_Don’t back down!_ Eddie told his fight-or-flight reflexes. _You’re not wrong about this._

“And- and you remember that time in Mr. Nyberg’s class in third grade when you started making fun of me for giving you a Care Bear valentine, and everyone said it was from me because everyone else in class had the same He-Man and She-ra valentines?”

Richie stared vacantly at him, unresponsive.

“Well- it wasn’t. I gave you the piece of paper that said ‘Jeepers! Would you be mine for a Scooby snack?’. I saw it on a box at the store, but Mommy-- my mother wouldn’t let me buy that pack because she said that drug paraphernalia leads to socialism, and eventually AIDS.

He shuffled nervously. “... Anyway, it was from me. I wrote it.”

Richie remained unmoved. His hands were noticeably sweaty around Richie’s bunched up polyester blend, and Eddie became acutely aware of their friends gathered around them in a huddled semi-circle. The Street Fighter game stood abandoned as Bill and Stan watched the pair of them in a trance, the recorded voice urging them to “Fight!” on repeat.

“I--” Eddie began, choking on his dry throat, parched from nervousness.

Mike slid forward to place his extra large Orange Crush soda into Eddie’s hand. They watched heedful as Eddie drank half of the waxed-paper contents in one go, refusing to break eye contact lest he lose momentum.

He gulped until his dehydration was cured, and then held the straw up to Richie’s mouth in offering.

Richie drew to it slowly, watching Eddie in return. His lips were unfocused around the straw, his eyebrows pinched together in an uptick. Neither of them spoke as Eddie held the drink out to his side, Mike hurrying forward to retrieve it, vigilant in preserving their delicate bubble.

“Thanks, Mike,” Eddie said, watching the color drain completely from Richie’s already pale skin; the dusting of freckles along his cheeks a warm distraction from Richie’s pained expression.

Eddie went all in while he still could, before his tentative bravery inevitably ran out. He could already feel the familiar sinking in the pit of his stomach.

“I think about you all the time.” His voice squeaked with vulnerability. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

Richie remained silent. Uncharacteristically so. The depth in his eyes pleaded against some impossible dread that Eddie couldn’t name.

“Just say it, Richie…” His willed his gaze to return the longing, giving him a minute to shore up whatever courage he needed to.

Richie blinked, unmoved.

“Richie, _talk!_ ”

It was infuriating! Here Eddie was, word-vomiting his heart onto his sleeve in front of five teenage boys who already knew enough about him to write a book, the unoccupied ticket dispenser he’d yelled at, a handful of local brats, and probably God himself.

And the most reliable mouth in town was leaving him hanging, much like Richie’s hand in the air after a bad “your mom” joke. 

Instead, Eddie got silence and a blank stare. Richie had mentally checked out.

And it was really starting to piss Eddie off. It was like he was stranded in an alternate universe, helpless.

“Are you seriously doing this, right now? Now, after all these years of-- what, is this brain loss? Are you stroking out on me right now? I told you not to eat those brownies, you idiot!

Richie’s face gave off the slightest motion of a laugh, like he wasn’t expecting it. He shifted his stance, and the fear melted away from his features. 

“I wish I had known this trick years ago. Could’ve saved myself years of your obnoxious bullshit if I had just kissed you. Should I remember that next time, Rich?” His limbs still shook, but the words and the attitude came from a spark deep inside him that he never knew existed. He was verging on hysterical.

Richie’s slow smile started to form, starting at one end of his mouth and pulling up into his cheek. 

Long fingers lingered carefully on Eddie’s hips. 

His cheeks heated up in an entirely different kind of way, and he liked it. “You know, all this time I thought that you just really liked to piss me off. But I can see it, now. You really like me.” He pulled Richie’s shirt tighter in his hands, bringing the boy impossibly closer to his torso. Their faces were inches away, to where Eddie had to pull his head back to continue gazing up into Richie’s eyes.

Richie’s palms pressed against the sides of Eddie’s shorts, holding him safe on his toes.

He could feel Richie’s hands shaking. He looked down and sure enough, he was trembling up to his elbows. It was enough to alight the stubborn fire in Eddie, seeing how much Richie was invested in this. How much it scared him. “I really like you, too.”

“Wow, Eds…” he whispered, the wobble in his voice had him chuckling self-consciously.

Eddie was softened by this new side of Richie. It had probably been there all along, buried under years of dick jokes and teasing.

He stared up at the stars in Richie’s eyes, the pinkness of his cheeks making Eddie want to caress them. Richie was smiling despite the shivering, and Eddie couldn’t help but beam back at him. Both ready for the other to make the first move, neither ready to do it themselves.

Eddie reached up and adjusted Richie’s glasses into place by the side of his frames, having slipped back down over the course of their embrace.

Richie’s arms wrapped around the small of his back, then a little further, keeping him close. 

He made sure they were properly snug, then let his arms drape themselves around Richie’s neck. 

“So are you gonna put your money where your mouth is, you big scaredy cat?”

Richie was completely lost in a spell to the pint-sized powerhouse in front of him. They stood like that for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, glancing at each other’s lips, and hugging in a suspended moment.

“What, chickening out already, Tozier?” Eddie taunted with the sideways grin of a smartass, eyes blazing. 

“I think you should shut me up some more.” Richie seemed to be warming up, despite the persistent shake in his limbs. 

“Already did,” Eddie insisted, a touch of challenge in his tone.

“Do it again.”

“Your turn, you pussy.”

“But you’re so good at it.”

“I’m not just going to stand here all night waiting, you know,” Eddie lied.

“Aw, that’s a shame, Eds, you feel so right in my arms like this.” He wasn’t wrong. Eddie, still on his toes, would be one misstep from falling over if he weren’t secured tight in Richie’s embrace.

“Guess it’s never gonna happen again, then.”

“Guess I’ll have to head back to your mom’s, then.”

“You can never make a dick joke about my mom EVER again because it’s really gross and I really think I’m gonna vomit the next time you--”

“I can’t take this anymore!” Stan pressed his hands onto Richie’s back, pushing him forward smack into Eddie and nearly knocking the two of them off of their feet. 

Using Richie as a prop, he guided them stumbling away from the Street Fighter console where the rest of the losers remained gobsmacked, and towards the front doors. 

He sighed dramatically. “I’m so tired of it! All you guys ever do is bicker--”

“Now we’re bickering _romantically_ ,” Richie smarmed, narrowly avoiding tripping over the first grader darting through their path.

“That sounds like, literally, the stuff of my nightmares!”

They came to a stop at the photo booth, the blocked white letters against blue representing a solid, warm memory of their fading childhoods, another thing that tied them together in good times and bad.

But as Richie collected himself, he looked down at his lifelong friend with hurt and surprise. 

“What the _fuck_ , Stan? Your nightmares?”

Stan tilted his head towards the vacant booth. 

Eddie and Richie both looked at each other, and then back to Stan.

His smile was sweet and genuine despite his insistence. "Now you guys can have some privacy. So you can finally shut up and actually kiss each other. You know, without having everyone staring at you." 

And in that moment, Eddie saw the same boy who stood underground with them in the clubhouse, armed with the shower caps he’d bought with his own allowance, distributing them amongst his most trusted loved ones so that they could keep the spiders out of their hair.

“That makes a lot of sense, Stan,” Eddie said, taken aback with gratitude. “I guess we should’ve thought of that, huh Rich?”

Stan shrugged. “Just don’t make me spend another fifteen years watching my best friends make fools of themselves.” He pointed to the curtain solemnly. “Now don’t come out until you’re boyfriends.”

Eddie’s heart leapt with relief. He had never imagined that being brave would have paid off in such rewarding and supportive ways.

“So, what I think you’re saying, here, Stan…” Richie rested a gangly arm against the top of the booth entrance, “is that you want Eds and I to take some photos for you of us getting to second base?”

“ _Oh my god!_ ” the two boys shouted in unison. Eddie caught Stanley snickering in the background, asking Ben if he had overheard Richie’s sick burn.

As always, Richie’s hand shot up towards Stan for a high five. 

Stan’s resting bitch face of a response was as reliable as ever. 

Satisfied, Richie pulled aside the curtain, bowed low and swung a gesturing arm in an "after you" motion.

Eddie rolled his eyes and shook his head, but couldn’t wipe the elated grin off his face if he’d tried. 

Once they were both inside the small quarters and Richie pulled the curtain shut behind them, he swivelled back to find Eddie already close enough to hold, a _very_ suggestive look on his face.

Eddie smiled up at him confidently. "Now...where were we?"

.


	10. Chapter 10

.

Late September in Derry, Maine brought the summer temperatures down to the mid-60s; cold enough to wear a jacket, but warm enough for one last trek to the underground clubhouse.

The entrance to the loser’s secret hideaway was already littered with leaves of brown, red, orange, and yellow. There was a shared relief that Derry had never been deemed impressive enough a town for the leaf peepers and their annual foliage tours-- the mass influx of leaf watchers that flooded into the northeast tip of the country every time autumn rolled around. 

It meant that they had their own stretch of the woods all to themselves, with no one to interrupt or impose upon their capers.

It also left all of the area’s natural splendor to be enjoyed in peaceful solitude by one brand new admirer.

Stanley Barber stood straight as a board, arms spread at his side in a god-like pose straight out of Rio de Janeiro, head tilted back towards the late afternoon sun in salutation.

He breathed in deep, chest heaving slowly, fully relishing in the moment. 

The forest smelled clean. Familiar, in a way he’d never known in Brownsville.

It was so serene in this secluded area of the woods that he could barely hear anything but the chirping of birds in the trees. 

And, of course, his friends beneath his feet.

"You coming, Stanley?" Mike's face hovered level with the ground; a cheerful, floating head.

He peered hesitantly down the shaft as Mike descended. He’d never seen an _underground_ clubhouse before. Most of his experiences with treehouses were flimsy, unsafe edifices in someone's backyard. Typically the plastic Playskool kinds. In fact, the only time he'd ever seen a real treehouse was up in his neighbor's birch back in Pennsylvania; an old, rotted collection of wood planks that probably served well for a lightweight child or two in the early 1900's.

But as he stepped down the ladder with both hands gripping at the sides, what he saw left him impressed. 

Large wooden support beams ran throughout, vertical pillars propping up several horizontal bars. It was evident there had been frequent structural improvements to stabilize the frame, keeping the support beams less likely to shift. On instinct, he tapped at the one closest to him, and not an ounce of dust shifted.

It was like one of those Lincoln Log Cabins, painstakingly constructed by a child with an uncanny attention for weight distribution. 

“Did your parents help you guys make this? Did they… hire someone?” Stanley couldn’t imagine the machinery necessary for this kind of undertaking. 

Ben smiled sheepishly. “We set this place up ourselves.”

"Nah,” Mike said from his favorite perch-- the swing positioned dead center in the room. "This was mostly Ben's doing. We helped here and there, but, this” he looked around the expanse of it, “is all the Architect's work. And it’s come a long way!”

"Tell him ab-b-bout your tttime in B-B-B-B-"

"Speed it up, B-Bill. You're putting Eddie to sleep over here," Richie taunted from the hammock. 

The last two year’s worth of growth spurts had rendered him the tallest of them all, standing three inches above Mike, and towering over Eddie and Bill.

And the change was never more evident than in the spectacle of watching him try to fit his graceless limbs into the confines of the threadbare hammock, straining to get situated.

Eddie stood in the space between the hammock and the cinder-block-and-wood shelving unit against the wall, watching the struggle with amusement. 

Once he’d stilled himself within the cotton fabric with one long leg draped over the side, his right foot planted on the ground to keep the hammock stationary, he patted his thighs, salaciously inviting Eddie to climb aboard via straddling his hips.

Eddie grinned devilishly. “You wish, Tozier.” He steadied himself as he crawled in, sidling up to Richie’s left side, and snuggling into his upper torso. He rested his head on his boyfriend’s chest.

Richie draped an arm around his shoulders and rested his hand against Eddie's upper back, pulling him in a little closer. 

A lot had changed in the last week and a half since the fateful Tuesday night at the arcade.

"-B-B-B-Bar Harbor!" Bill finished.

"It was an enlightening experience,” Ben said, enunciating each word with a diction well beyond his age. “I met a lot of great architects and professors, there. One of them teaches at NYU; they said it’s a great university to consider applying to, if I want to seriously pursue architecture." 

Stanley glanced at Eddie as Ben continued.

"Bev has been considering NYU as well, for fashion design. Did I tell you guys her aunt got her a new sewing machine, and she's making her own dresses, now?"

Stanley couldn’t help but smile. Even when Ben was in the thick of receiving well-deserved compliments, he couldn’t help but to raise other people up with him.

And Eddie looked so blissful in Richie’s embrace that talk of his friends moving off to college didn't seem to phase him.

"You guys could always move in together” Mike offered, his feet holding in place as he swayed gently on the swing seat. “New York City is supposed to be really expensive. It would help to have a roommate."

Ben’s face flashed with pleasant surprise, followed by an insecure shake of his head. “That would be a dream.” He fiddled with the Mason jar full of odds and ends on the shelf next to him. “Four years is a long ways away, though…”

Richie scoffed. “And you’re expecting her to dump you between now and then?” His eyes bore into Ben’s with a hint of anger. Richie was skilled at reading people when he wanted to be, but the slump of Ben’s shoulders had his defenses up. “Well, that’s a load of shit. Why would she? You’re Prince Charming. You write her poetry in fucking science class. You two are like a fairy tale, or something. If _you guys_ can’t make it work, then remind me to jump off a skyscraper, cause I won’t have a chance in hell at keeping this stud around.”

"Aw, Rich..." Eddie tilted his head up to gaze at him in adoration. He ran a finger along Richie’s jawbone. “Yeah, Ben. I’d rather jump off a building than break up with you, too. Bev’s no dummy.” Richie’s hand on his back pressed in tighter, his thumb massaging against the muscle between his shoulder blades. 

"W-what if we all got a p-place together?" 

Bill had been silently ruminating from the oak bench behind Mike. He had the same expression as that time Stanley had asked him what color mirrors are. 

"I know my p-parents have been pushing me towards U of M so I’d be close to home, but... what if I went to New York, instead?" He looked from Mike, to Ben, to Stanley. “NYU’s creative writing program is the best in the country… why waste all that tuition money in Maine just to end up back in Derry, like my parents?”

Mike nodded, already visibly invested in the idea. "You guys should do that. That sounds amazing! And then you could all come stay with me on the farm when you visit home for the summers."

Bill laughed. "W-what, you really plan on being a farmer for the r-rest of your life?"

Mike shrugged, his sheepish smile falling into one of polite discomfort.

"That's your g-grandfather. Thats not you." He jumped to his feet and closed the distance between them, resting a hand against the rope of the swing, stilling Mike’s movements. "No, you don’t deserve to end up stuck in Derry, either." 

Mike met Bill’s steeled gaze, exchanging words without speaking. "You're really good with animals, Mike. You should be s-saving them, not slaughtering them. Remember what you told me last week?"

Mike’s flushed cheeks told Stanley that, whatever had transpired, Mike knew that Bill was right. 

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. And I think you should consider being a vet-t-trian-n-narian! You’d be taking medical courses j-just like Edd--"

He paused, spun on his heels, and marched over to the hammock where the pair had been sneaking kisses. "Your m-mom wants you to be a d-doctor, right?” They pulled apart, frowning at Bill in irritation. “Well, Bangor Community College isn't going to get you a D-Doctorate's degree, Eddie!"

“Yeah? No shit.” Eddie wasn’t a fan of being interrupted on a good day, much less in the middle of a private moment. 

But they knew well enough that once Bill got himself worked up over an idea, he only grew more consumed with it. 

"You need to go to a univ-v-versity to be a doctor. And you--" he shook the hammock to reclaim Richie’s attention, already having rolled away from him, uninterested in anything other than Eddie and his lips. 

"Who, me?" Richie asked half-heartedly, carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair. 

"Yeah, you, Richie! You want to be a comedy writer, don’t you? Wh-where better to do that than New York? Join the writing program with me!"

Itching with enthusiasm, Stanley joined in. “Richie, that’d be perfect for you! You could audition for Saturday Night Live. What if you met Mike Myers??” He wobbled with excitement. “And you should do the standup comedy circuit, like Robin Williams!" He beamed with pride just thinking about the possibilities that lay ahead for his friend.

Richie was so taken aback that his fingers stilled where they were, tangled up in Eddie's soft waves. "You really think I could do all that?"

"Yes!” Bill insisted. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!"

Eddie grimaced. "My mom would never let me move to New York. She said that you could realistically--"

"But _she_ wants you to be a doctor! She’s the one p-pushing for it!"

“I’m not going anywhere without Eddie.”

“Will you just-- Eddie, it's never going to fucking happen if you're living at home with her for the rest of your life. She'll have to fucking deal with it!" Bill looked like he could rip the hair from his scalp with his own hands. 

He took a minute to close his eyes and steady himself. “You b-both are going. I’m not just thinking about myself, okay?” He was truly impassioned, straining with emotion that was noticeable from where Stanley and Ben stood on the other end of the room. “I want to make this happen for all of us.” He looked directly at Richie, and Stanley knew in an instant what Bill was getting at. “We are NOT going to suffer here. We’re going somewhere where we can all just…” His face fell as he floundered, not knowing how else to word it. 

A quiet voice spoke up behind him. "It's not that easy, Bill..."

They all turned to face Stan, sullen and alone in his corner. He was seated on an upside down bucket with a cushion on it, with both hands on his knees. "My dad would never let me go anywhere but Georgia State. It’s his alma mater."

Bill paled. "No way... If we go, we all go. Together."

"He- he wouldn't understand."

"Fuck what your dad thinks." He stalked towards Stan with purpose. "He's just an asshole, anyway. Does he think there are no accountants in New York?"

"He'd never pay a dime towards tuition. I'd be broke." Stan's posture sunk, like he really wanted to believe in this plan. Like he knew he'd be the one left out.

Bill grabbed Stan by the shoulders, dropping to one knee on the dusty floor to meet him face to face.

"You're coming WITH us, Stan. We'd never leave you behind. We'll all get jobs, and you'll take out loans, and we'll find ways to make this work. You’re NOT going to Georgia because we're not meant to be apart. None of us."

Stanley watched as they all nodded warmly in solidarity.

“I’ll do it, Stan,” Eddie murmured. “I’ll go.” His fingers entwined with Richie’s. “We’ll both go. My mother can’t stop us, and neither can your dad.”

Tears ran down Stan's face, and he smiled softly. Years of anxiety melted away, the weight finally lifting from his shoulders. He'd been carrying it for far too long.

"So, that settles it! We all get a place together. Ben and Bev will share a room, you me and Mike will share a room, and--"

It dawned on him that he hadn't factored Stanley into the equation, yet.

He looked across the room, bracing himself into a stand. "What about you, Stanley? What do you want to do after high school’s over?"

"I..... I don't know." The question shouldn’t have been as perplexing as it was. But the harder he thought on it, the more his mind blanked. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that, before."

"So there's nothing stopping you from coming with us, then." Bill dared.

Stanley blinked. "You guys really want me to come with you? To live? In New York?" He could hardly believe it. He felt Ben's hand on his shoulder, encouraging him.

"I think New York would be a lot more fun if you were there, too."

"And since you’ll be the designated roomie for those two, we'll all chip in and get you earplugs!" Bill laughed.

“Oh _ha ha_. Fuck you, Bill!” Eddie cried and pulled Richie in for another kiss to spite him.

Stan smiled brighter through his tears. "Come on, you guys. We're sitting _right here_!"

Richie kissed him back, and then raised a middle finger in Bill's general direction. 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m sure Otter would be more than happy to share a bunk bed with you, Stanley.”

Eddie gasped at the adorable image this painted.

“Ohmygod, you think he would?” He was entirely serious. The idea of bunking with the buoyant and chipper pup had Stanley lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Sure! I mean, someone’s going to have to babysit him while Eds and I go at it.”

The room erupted with a united chorus of “Beep beep, Richie!”

Stanley laughed freely, the intense feeling of possibility and hope no longer fleeting. “What does that mean?”

...

An hour had passed, and Stanley still couldn’t get enough of exploring the clubhouse and all of its interior quirks. The decorations, the lanterns, the stop sign, the Kiefer Sutherland poster; each had its own origin story begging to be told.

Ben answered each one with delight, honored that someone had taken so much interest in his work. 

“Whose candy is this?” Stanley shook a half-full container of Whoppers next to the boombox radio, currently playing Bell Biv DeVoe’s “Poison”. 

“That’s been there for a reeeeally long time, so I wouldn’t risk it. They probably taste like powdered dust by now.” 

Stanley smiled down into the box, a twinkle in his eye as he shrugged his shoulders at Ben.

“...Sure, yeah. They’re all yours.” Ben looked away as Stanley tipped the entire box back and downed as many as he could fit in his mouth. “Anyway, to answer your question, the hooks were already in place to begin with, so it was easy to transform them into something else. The swing,” he gestured to Mike, “and the hammock.”

“ _Maintaining_ the hammock, on the other hand...” Mike grinned smugly.

The group minus Richie and Eddie cracked up laughing. 

“Yeah, yeah, yolk it up.”

“They’ve broken that hammock so many times, and Ben keeps right on fixing it back up.” 

Together, with their violent limbs and explosive hyperactivity, they had broken the connector to the hammock more times than any of them could count. Ben, ever the saint, would repair the damage quietly, never once complaining about it.

_“I’m not going to sit there anymore if you’re just going to keep breaking it!”_ Stan had threatened at the time. Richie and Eddie had accepted his complaint as an offer of forfeiture, and returned to their comic books at their own ends of the hammock, smug with victory. 

_“Guess that’s the rule, now. Just Eds and I in the hammock.”_

_“It should be the opposite.”_

_“You have to respect the rules, Stan”_ joked Richie. 

_“Yeah, Stan. Verbal agreement!”_ Eddie concurred. 

Mike had smiled at the two of them from the swing hanging safely from the center beam, shaking his head lovingly.

Now, though, was an entirely different scene. The two of them laid with their heads at the same end, cuddling openly as they sunk further into the middle of the hammock, both engrossed in the same comic book. 

“Turn the page?”

“Almost done.” Richie kissed him tenderly against his temple, and resumed reading the dialogue in the last panel.

“And this,” Ben motioned towards the back wall, “was Bev’s idea.”

Bill was reclined in a lawn chair, brought down after an uneventful Derry parade had left it abandoned, sipping a can of soda that he’d left condensating in an armrest cupholder.

“She carried it all the way over here by herself, as a surprise for us!”

“Bev always did nice things like that.” Stan smiled at Ben in agreement. “She looked out for us.”

“It feels kinda weird, doesn’t it? Bev n-n-not being here.”

Mike sighed. “I can’t believe we haven’t been down here since school started.”

“It’ll probably be our last chance for awhile.” Ben glanced up at the dirt ceiling. “The ground will be freezing soon.”

“I’m really glad that I got to see it for the last hurrah of the year.” Stanley balled his fist into the air in celebration, immediately recoiling to brush frantically at his arm. “FUCK, was that a spider?” 

He danced around in place, horrified, brushing furiously at his clothing. “Oh god, oh god. Do you guys see it on me? Is there a spider on me?” Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he ducked and scurried away from the walls, hunching over in the middle of the room next to Mike. 

“Don’t worry, Stanley” smiled Stan, reaching for a faded tin coffee can. “I’ve got just the thing.

…

Eddie had already fallen asleep by the time Stanley unearthed an old Speak ‘n Spell toy from the collection of items on Ben’s handmade bookshelf. He held it up in curious puzzlement. “What’s this?”

Richie reached a hand out, beckoning Stanley over. 

It was sweet how Richie didn’t want to shout across the room, letting Eddie get some well-deserved rest to start their weekend. 

But when he set his comic book down and flipped the red and yellow battery-operated item on, he turned up the volume so that everyone could hear it.

“A-S-S. Ass,” the computerized voice announced. 

Eddie burrowed his tired face into Richie’s chest, muffling his words. “You’re not funny.”

Richie’s index finger hovered over the plastic coated keyboard as his eyes tinted a shade more mischievous, like he was weighing the outcome of pouncing on the devil’s back, and then going ahead and doing it anyway.

“D-I-C-K. Dick.”

Eddie pushed himself up onto the arm that had been tucked underneath his side, and gave Richie a look.

His unzipped jacket was pulled askew, showcasing the old Freese’s shirt that Richie had long since grown out of. But it fit Eddie perfectly now, and Richie’s heart beat in triple-time at the sight of it.

“What?” Richie beamed. “It’s my name!”

Eddie tried his damndest not to smile. “Did your parents drop you on your head? It’s never too late for them to start, if they didn’t. We could start right now, in fact.”

Stanley chuckled to himself, happy that things had worked out exactly as they should have, and walked back to rejoin Ben to give them some privacy.

Ben was shifting through some boxes underneath the table, searching intently for whatever had piqued his interest. 

“Here it is!” Ben grasped the unlabelled box with a broken flap, and pulled it towards him. He moved a few items around, and lifted out a smaller shoebox from within.

He set it on the table reverently, opening it with dawning appreciation. “I can’t believe I forgot about this…” 

Stanley tilted his head, peering at the assorted knicknacks and keepsakes laid carefully beneath faded white tissue paper. 

Several cassette tapes with markered titles shifted to the side, one of which read “I’ll Be Loving You - NKOTB” with a heart scribbled next to it.

Underneath a pressed lilac, Stanley saw two ticket stubs to Paula Abdul’s _Forever Your Girl_ tour. He could hear the song play instantly in his mind, and it made his heart swell to see how Ben cherished these items so openly, without shame or embarrassment. 

In such a private moment, surrounded by teenage boys, Ben’s unguarded expression was only full of love and reminiscence.

It struck Stanley just now that he had never known anyone in his life who was a better antithesis to toxic masculinity. Ben may be an unabashedly hopeless romantic, but there was nothing fragile or defensive about him. 

His burgeoning affection for Ben was effortless, and his respect for him grew deeper. 

He rifled through to the bottom, finding what he was looking for tucked into the side of the box. 

He held it in his hands, cradling it like it was the most cherished item he owned.

“This was one of the best days of my life,” he said as he smiled down at the photo booth strip. Four different squares with tiny faces smiled back up at him.

He handed the strip to Stanley. “The one standing next to me is Beverly. Now you can have a face to go with the name.” 

Stanley looked on with interest, scratching at the hairnet that Stan procured for him, keeping his curls safe from spiders as promised. 

Six familiar faces gleamed at him, playfully interacting in ways that felt so instinctively _them_. The goofy exuberance in these photos encapsulated his friends _exactly_ as he had come to know them.

But when he caught sight of the smiling redhead at Ben’s side, his smile faded, the color draining from his face.

It took a moment to sink in, the creeping feeling of comical juxtaposition shifting quickly into nausea and confusion. 

He couldn’t look away, even as the ice flooded his veins. The dirt walls closed in around him, and he felt his forehead sweating. Something had gone very, very wrong here.

"I don't get it."

"Get what?" Ben asked, scrunching his nose at an old bookmark with “D.A.R.E.” lettering emblazoned at the top. 

"How do you guys know Syd?" He looked around the clubhouse.

Everything came to a halt. Mike rose from his swing at the look on Stanley’s face.

Bill and Stan followed, and they all gathered around the photo. 

“What?” Richie asked from the hammock, Eddie popping his head towards the commotion. “What do you mean?”

Stanley looked repeatedly at the strip of photos, eyes racing to each and every one of them like it were some sort of cruel joke that they were all playing on him. 

“This is Sydney. This is my friend Sydney Novak, from Pennsylvania. How did you get this?”

He studied the images, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of how his best friend could possibly be in photos, beaming and laughing with the very group of people he had met a month ago.

A creepy sensation fell over him as he remembered he and Eddie sitting in the lobby of the movie theater, both in tears. 

_“I met a superhero once… but like, the bad kind?”_

_“I believe you. You’ve seen it, too?”_

Mike placed a hand on his arm. “Are you okay, Stanley?” 

Bill leaned in to look at the photos, recognizing them instantly. “Th-that’s Beverly. We promise!”

Stanley shook his head, tears welling up. “I don’t understand…”

His eyes latched onto Richie’s, desperate for answers. His friend stared back at him in distress. 

He could hear Richie’s lunchtime taunts about body snatchers echoing in his eardrums, leaving him shaken and disoriented. 

He remembered conversations with Syd at the bowling alley, talks of honing powers and the uncontrollable rage that consumed her. 

He had so many questions, but couldn’t ask any without betraying his best friend’s life or death secrets. 

He looked from Richie to Stan, and back at the photos. “Can we see her?”

Ben nodded with worried eyes. “You want to meet Beverly? That’d be great if you wanted to come with me on the train next month.”

“No, I have to see her now. Sorry. I--” He struggled to get a grip on his emotions. “Can I see her now? I need to see if-- if it--” His manic intensity grew with every failed attempt to articulate his thoughts. 

Richie shot up from the hammock, Eddie protesting as it rolled sideways. “Let’s do it.” He looked at Ben. “Let’s go see Bev. How much is the train ticket?”

“I’m in, too,” Mike said, Stan nodding next to him. Bill smiled with excitement as they all faced Ben, waiting on the news.

“You guys, you guys,” Stanley said, eyes widening as his heart thumped wildly in his chest. “I have a car.”

.

This amazing artwork was done by aidaline at [aidapire](https://www.instagram.com/aidapire/) on Instagram. Thank you so, so much for this! You've really captured the soft sweetness between them, and I can see the fondness in their expressions. I love this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for Part One of this series. Thank you guys so much for reading! 
> 
> You can find me at: 
> 
> [Parallel_Motion](https://parallel-motion.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and 
> 
> [Distinguished_Frenchtoast](https://www.instagram.com/distinguished_frenchtoast/) on Instagram


End file.
